


What Has Been Wrought

by I_Write_Tragedies_Not_Sins



Series: The Way of Thedas [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Canon Divergent, F/M, M/M, Multiple Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:32:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 113,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6845023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Write_Tragedies_Not_Sins/pseuds/I_Write_Tragedies_Not_Sins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jalyn stands motionless next to Owain. A demon growls, breath a foul stench of rage and rot. Memories splinter across her mind in a shower of flashing lights and flickering faces, pain assaulting her as she doubles over. Tears streak down her face. She can feel hands, cold and clammy, running across her body in a distant memory. Unwanted, harsh, and the remembrance steals her breath.</p><p>As quick as she feels it, it's gone, vanished behind a thick haze of emptiness once more. She turns her head to look at Owain, her lips parted and face still wet with tears. An abomination glares back, flesh twisted beyond recognition. Jalyn feels nothing, her emotions already gone again. She does not wish to become the same, however. It feels uncomfortable, when the demons brush against her mind."</p><p>Dragon Age: Origins, a story of the civil war & ravenous blight that shook Ferelden to its core. This tale is told through mutiple viewpoints as a weary band of travelers fight against demons, both metaphorical and real. A tale of bonds made and bonds broken in the dark shadows of war.</p><p>AU / canon divergent</p><p>Can read as stand alone</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ***IMPORTANT THINGS TO NOTE***
> 
> If this is the first thing you're reading in this series, here is a brief rundown of the important AU lore points that have been changed/developed: 
> 
> 1\. City elves and human commoners from Denerim (the poorest of the poor, that is) speak with the same accent as Sera.  
> 2\. Tabris and Nesiara are married seven years prior to the Blight. They have a daughter. Nelaros is married to Shianni. (A Smuggler's Chant). Nesiara is dead, daughter is left with Merrill's clan.  
> 4\. Spirit Healers must be empaths. Non-empaths who wish to heal can only do basic healing spells.  
> 5\. Surana and Jowan were in a relationship until she is made tranquil in an effort to protect her best friend, Amell. Amell and Cullen were in a brief, almost-a-relationship but was broken off by Cullen because he felt he couldn't properly protect her. ("Collision")

_ _

 

_Nesiara lies on the ground, neck twisted at an sickening angle. Her wedding finger's been chopped off, a bloody stump where once her wedding band rested. Blood pools around her and coats her worn dress, mingling with her blonde hair. Nesiara's body is heavy in Maroth's arms, still warm against his skin. A ragged scream rips itself from his lips, echoing in the empty hall._

Maroth sits bolt upright, the cold ground hard beneath him. An owl hoots in the distance as his heart pounds with rage and grief, hands shaking in the half-hidden moonlight. It's been four months since Nesiara's death, but the pain of losing her, and of giving up his daughter, still tears at his dreams nightly.

Aneirin quietly stares at him from his watch post, sitting on the forest floor with his back against a dying tree. "Bad dream?" he questions, tone soft.

Maroth shrugs, scowling as sweat trickles down his back. "S'fine," he replies, tone short. 

"I didn't ask how you were," he retorts. "I can see the answer to _that_ plain on your face, Tabris."

Maroth scoffs, running his fingers through his long, dirty blonde hair, the slight wavy curls catching on his rough skin. He looks over at Aneirin through a curtain of his hair, green eyes shining. "Ya think ya can read me so well, right? What'sit I'm thinkin' now?" he taunts, lips twitching into a smirk.

Aneirin raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Something salacious, no doubt." His tone is dry as he meets Maroth's eyes, his tattoos barely visible in the soft light of night.

Maroth grins, crawling over toward him on his hands and knees. "Maybe ya know me alright, after all, if that means w'at I think it does," he says, pressing a soft kiss against Aneirin's lips. "You an' me, how 'bout we satisfy my wicked thoughts instead of all this talkin'?" He grips the mage's orange-red hair in his calloused hands, the texture coarse against his skin.

Aneirin wraps an arm around his neck. "As you wish, my friend," he replies.

Maroth moans as he captures Aneirin's lips in a kiss, breath mingling together as they lay on the forest floor. He can feel himself hardening against his breeches as he pulls him closer. He loses himself in the feel of the mage's hands on his skin, pushing away the cobwebs of memories clinging to his brain. He drinks in the warm embrace of his lover, a formidable wall against the wave of emotions that threaten to engulf him. Aneirin grabs a tangle of his long hair, tugging slight, and Maroth's breath hitches in his throat. He can feel a tingle of Aneirin's magic light across his skin in an electrifying dance.

"More," Maroth whispers, tilting his head back. "More."

 

~*~*~

  
Melina stares out over the crowd of her fellow mages, her plump face flushed as she searches for a place to sit, shifting from foot to foot like a nervous pigeon. She carefully checks her barrier, making sure a firm wall is still between her and her fellow mages, keeping their emotions separate so they don't overwhelm her.

An arm shoots out above the crowd, waving her over; and a small, relieved smile spreads across her face as she recognizes Finn. She shuffles over to where he's sitting with Petra, Niall, and Evelina. She curtsies before sitting down, blush deepening as she notices Evelina rolling her eyes.

"Always so formal, Amell. We're about to head off to battle together- lighten up," she says, her brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail. She grabs a hardened biscuit from the center of the table with a bored expression on her face, fingers plucking the bread deftly from the basket before Niall can grab it. He frowns at her, and Melina can feel a trickle of his displeasure at having missed the last roll.

Melina nods quickly. "Yes, Enchanter Evelina," she replies, voice soft.

Finn kicks her gently under the table. "She's just teasing, Melina. I doubt they'll take _you_ into battle," he assures her, flicking an imaginary speck of dirt off his robes.

Petra clears her throat, exchanging an amused glance with Niall. "You didn't know, Finn? They're short on Spirit Healers so Amell's taking her Harrowing tonight so she can join them."

Finn's mouth falls open, his eyes wide. She can feel a tingle of his shock reach her, and frowns as she tries to keep her barrier erect. "You mean, she has to go _outside_?" he replies, voice riddled with disgust.

Melina bites her lip, golden eyes cast down toward the table as she picks meekly at her food. She knows she's not very useful as a mage. Or at least, not with battle magic.

She looks up, meeting Finn's eyes. "It's because Anders ran away again. So, I have to do my best, and follow the templar's orders, so I can come home again quickly."

She glances to her left, where a wall of templars stand. Their shining silver armour brings her comfort, because she knows they will always be there to protect her from the dangers of her magic, should she succumb to the demons. Her eyes look for Cullen, even though her mind still whispers that it's foolish to love him. But he isn't there this time, and her heart falls a little as a sigh escapes her lips.

Niall takes a bite of food, shrugging his shoulders. "I hear that one kid, what's his name? Jaween, Jolan..." He meets Melina's eyes head on as he speaks, watching her.

Petra scoffs. "Jowan?" she supplies, and Melina's blood runs cold at the name.

Niall nods in response. "Yeah, that's the one. Surana's lover, the one she did blood magic for? He's going, too, or so I hear."

Melina clenches her fists into tight balls under the table as tremors of anger run through her. She struggles to keep a tight grip on her emotions, her magic stirring in her veins as her body shakes.

She's probably the only person in all of Kinloch Hold that knows the truth, that it's Jowan who is the maleficar, not Jalyn. No, Jalyn's only guilty of falling in love when she isn't allowed to. It's too dangerous for mages to harbour such strong emotions, they had both known that; it calls the demons even nearer. But Jalyn had paid a price too steep.

But she doesn't say a word, keeping Jalyn's secret safe in her heart even now. Not out of loyalty for Jowan, or even Jalyn, but because no one will believe her, and because it won't bring her friend back, no matter how hard she prays. She hangs her head, thick curls falling in front of her face and hiding the single, cold tear streaking down her rounded cheek.

The voices of the other mages hum around her, but she ignores it, mind caught in a haze of grief.

 

~*~*~

 

Birds trill throughout the Brecilian Forest as Maroth and Aneirin walk alone, the grass crunching beneath their boots. Maroth's thoughts drift to his daughter and deceased wife, despite his fingers still being entwined with his lover's. His heart skips a beat every time their faces come to mind, and he struggles not to let it overwhelm him.

He's glad for Aneirin's company, to help keep the weight of his grief from crushing him- at least until he's able to reunite with his little Laylah. And living free of the oppressive pressure of the human nobility in their lofty blasted castles is nice- better than he had even imagined. He could go his whole life and never meet another human and it would still be too soon.

But, even if it meant he never would've met Aneirin, he'd give this all up in a heartbeat to bring his family back. To hold Nessy in his arms, the weight of her body soft against his. Or hear his daughter's innocent, bubbling laughter. His sweet little Laylah.

Aneirin glances at him over his shoulder, a soft, rare smile forming on his face. "Your thoughts look heavy, care to share them?" he inquires.

Maroth shakes his head. "Not on a 'uch a sunny day," he replies.

He follows Aneirin's eyes upward, dark grey storm clouds swirling across a dismal sky. "Right. Of course," Aneirin says, tone dry. "Wouldn't want to ruin such a picturesque view."

Maroth's laughter echos against the trees, his heart feeling lighter than it had a moment ago. A few drops of rain splash against his skin, causing him to shiver despite the warmth of his cloak. "Race ya to the caves?" he challenges with a grin.

  
~*~*~

 

Melina lets her shoulders droop as she watches Jalyn work enchantments, the tranquil mage's bony hands moving deftly with foreign movements. "Hello, Jalyn!" she calls out, forcing herself to smile wide and wave. She ignores the chilly emptiness that flows from her friend like a blanket of ice that smothers her with the bitterness of cold. It steals her breath, heart slowing as she stands there, alone.

Jalyn doesn't look up, eyes barely blinking as she continues her work. She focuses on it with a steady, blank stare. The elf feels hollow to her and Melina wants to cry, body trembling.

But Jalyn says her crying disturbs the enchantments. The last time she'd cried, the templars had to escort her away. They say her empathic powers are harmful to the tranquil's work because they're the opposite- where Melina feels everyone's emotions, Jalyn can't even feel her own. She takes a deep breath and watches as her best friend works, praying to the Maker that Rite hadn't hurt. Images of them together, practicing magic, floats through her mind. Her heartbeat quickens and she wishes she could turn back time and do everything over again. If she had paid more attention, something, anything- maybe she could have saved Jalyn from this fate.

Melina clenches her fists. It should be Jowan here, working enchantments by candlelight. It should be that blood mage who has lost his feelings. "I miss you, Jalyn," Melina whispers, turning away. Her breath shudders out as she wipes away a tear.

  
~*~*~

  
A warm breeze blows through Maroth's hair, and the tips of his pointed ears twitch. The weather is calm, compared to the earlier storm that had kept them trapped for the evening in a tiny cave. He grins at the memory of their rain-soaked bodies entwining on the rough stone floor, lightning flashing and occasionally lighting up Aneirin's lust-filled expression. The booming echo of thunder had almost seemed to beat in rhythm to his thrusts.

The small open field Maroth stands in is empty, and a frown pulls his lips into a pout. He glances around, wondering where Aneirin might be. They've split up, both searching in different directions for food, but they were to meet back when the sun was just to the treeline, and now it's nearly gone from view. He folds his arms across his chest as he leans against a tree, paranoia making his heart race. As Maroth waits, the seconds slipping by, his mind drifts. He remembers the eve he had met the apostate mage, and how desperate he had been for company after Aneirin had saved his life.

Aneirin had resisted his company, at first, preferring to travel alone. But Maroth had persisted, mostly for his own selfish reasons. With a mage at his side, he can still hold onto the hope of seeing his little Laylah again.

The soft sound of crunching leaves startles him and he spins around, spear held at the ready. His body relaxes as Aneirin wanders from behind the bushes, hands held in the air.

"You're not going to stab me with your spear, are you, Tabris?" he asks, one brow raised and small grin in place.

Maroth rolls his eyes, lowering his blade. "I just might, though not the way yer Imagin' it," he quips, and Aneirin blushes at the lewd suggestion.

Maroth chuckles at his lover's red cheeks, a flirtatious smirk tilting the edges of his lips upward. "Or do I 'ave you pegged wrong, pet?" he says, wiggling his eyebrows at the man.

Aneirin shakes his head, his reddish brown hair flying in his face. "You are incorrigible, my friend."

He nods in agreement, dark green eyes gleeful. "You speak the right of it, I think. But it makes yer life more uh, stimulatin', yeah?" Maroth's eyes dart to the pack hung over Aneirin's shoulder. "Ya found some food, right? Let's go on an adventure after we eat. I'm bored," he continues.

It's a lie, of course, and an obvious one at that. He isn't bored, exactly, he just wants to keep moving so he doesn't have time to stop and remember anything. Less time to think and feel if he's constantly travelling.

Aneirin grabs his hand, squeezing it softly. "I know it's only been a few months but..." he begins, voice hesitant.

Maroth cuts him off, face forming a scowl. "Stop," he says, body tense.

He can still hear Nessy, voice soft and feathery, as she says her evening prayer before their meal each night. Or the way she would sing their little girl to sleep at night, such a gentle voice. _La la lu, La la lu. Oh, my little sweet dreamer, I'll banish the demons for you._ His heartbeat speeds up, thundering painfully against his chest. His little girl, his baby...

At least he's managed to save her, and that Dalish woman, what was her name again? Merrill. Merrill has promised she'd be safe, after the mage girl had found them wandering alone in the forest, trying to escape Vaughn's men. He can feel Laylah's tiny, plump hand holding fast to his fingers as Merrill tugged her away, tears and snot rollin g down her cherub face.

Aneirin frowns but nods, pulling Maroth closer and caressing his cheek. "Alright, let's go on an adventure, then," he says with a sigh. "So long as I'm not almost eaten by a bear- again," he adds as an afterthought, causing Maroth to chuckle.

"I make no promises," he quips, kissing the man on his chin. "Now, tell me you found somethin' other than berries to eat today."

As Aneirin shakes his head 'no', Maroth groans. He’s almost certain he’s eaten so many of the sour berries recently, the Maker was about to turn him into one. Blasted wretched shite.

What he wouldn't give for some of Nesiara's spicy vegetable stew. His mouth waters at the thought as he eats a berry, wincing as the sour flavour bursts across his tongue. "Andraste's ass, I hate these blasted things," he mutters.

Aneirin stills, finger held hovering at his lips. He furrows his brow before widening his eyes. "Watch out, Tabris," he shouts.

A fire spell flies above Maroth's head as he spins around. He looks up at a twisted creature of rotting flesh stares down at him, clawing at the flames licking at its skin. Maroth scrambles back, reaching for his spear. "W'at in the shite is that?" He tries to keep his voice steady as he plungers the tip of his spear into the poor beast's chest, twisting until it fades away into the ground.

"Maker be praised," Aneirin mutters behind him.

Maroth turns, wiping the sweat from his brow. "W'at in the _shite_ was that?" he asks again.

Aneirin frowns, pulling his lower lip in through his teeth. "A demon of some sort, though I'm not sure what classification. Not very powerful, though, or we'd be dead."

"W'at a cheery thought," Maroth mutters back.

~*~*~

  
Melina smooths down her robes as she sits on her bed, hands shaking as she waits for Wynne to come for her. This is it, the night of her Harrowing. Butterflies flutter madly in her stomach as she fidgets with her patchwork robes.

A soft tapping lets her know someone has entered the room, and she can feel with her sense that it's Jowan- his guilt is a dark spot on her mind.

"Me-Melina?" he whispers, and his stuttering reminds her of Cullen.

Her brow furrows as she turns her head to look at the man who has taken Jalyn from her."Why are you here, blood mage?" she hisses, too low for the few remaining mages in the room to hear.

Jowan looks nervous anyway, beady eyes casting around as if he's checking for templars. "I'm just- I'm nervous too, you know. What if we fail?" he whines, wringing his hands.

Melina bites her lip. "You should be nervous. Demons always prey on blood mages," she replies.

The tapping of slippered feet causes her to glance toward the door. A sudden smile lights across her face when Wynne walks in the room, her grey hair twisted atop her head, not a strand out of place. Wynne smiles kindly at her, and a warmth spreads all the way through Melina at the sight. Wynne's like a mother to the mageling, a quiet guiding force that always gives her wise words to muse over.

"Senior Enchanter," Melina says, standing and curtsying. She knows it makes people nervous, but she can't help it. It's the one, albeit faded, memory she has of her mother, and Melina mimics it so she won't forget.

Wynne guides her down the hallway and away from Jowan's sad eyes. Before they begin to climb the stairs, Wynne pauses. Melina bumps into her back, not paying attention.

"Ompfh!" she mumbles, blinking rapidly. "Senior Enchanter? Is something the matter?"

Wynne shakes her head. "No child, we are waiting for our guard to escort us the rest of the way." Her face is calm and serene as she waits, hands folded neatly in front of her.

Melina fidgets, tugging on her curls. It isn't long before she hears the familiar clanking of templar armour. Her face lights up as she sees Cullen rounding the corner. A sense of relief floods her: she knows she'll be safe if Cullen's the one watching over her.

He stops in front of them, nodding politely. "S-senior Enchanter; Miss Melina," he says, and she smiles to hear his stutter has improved in the year since they had ended their ill-conceived affair.

"Ser Cullen, thank you for watching over me as I am about to undertake my Harrowing,” Melina replies, trying not to wish that he would call her Mellie, even just once more.

Cullen frowns. "Y-Yes, of course, Miss," he replies, and she lets down her barrier to see if she can sense his emotions. Templar emotions are always the most elusive to her, but Cullen's she can usually feel, if she tries hard enough. His barriers are particularly strong tonight, but she feels him let it slip enough for her to feel his worry over her safety. She smiles softly at his retreating back as they follow him up the stairs to where the others wait for them. Silently, she thanks the Maker he still cares even while knowing their love is a sin in His eyes.

 

~*~*~

 

Three shems stand before them, shaking in their blood-stained boots. The tip of Maroth's spear presses against one's throat, and a small droplet of blood runs down the blade as the man whimpers.

"P-p-please, don't kill us! We didn't even know you Dalish were here!"

Maroth scoffs, stomach churning as he watches the sweat drip down their pale faces. "Foolish 'ittle shite. I ain't Dalish, ya see their markings on my face, twit? Spendin' all this time in this blasted forest, and I'd forgotten the lot of you shems are dead from the neck up," he sneers, voice dripping venom with every word.

The shem whimpers again, this time louder. "I-I'm sorry! Just don't kill us, please!"

Aneirin glances at Maroth. "I do have markings, though they are hardly Dalish in origin. Their confusion is understandable," he says, but his eyes are focused on Maroth and not the humans.

Maroth scoffs, pressing the tip of his spear a little deeper, and a few more droplets of blood flow down until they touch his hands, staining his skin red. He grins at the sight, enjoying the feel of their fear.

Aneirin frowns but continues. “And we have no intention of killing any of you,” he says to the shems, tone firm.

Maroth's lip curls. "Why? Shem lives mean nothin'," is his cold reply. His fury over his wife's death has not been quieted in the months he's spent away from the Alienage. No, if anything, his lust for blood has only grown stronger each time he thinks of his family.

The human standing at the point of his spear starts to cry, and thick gobs of snot leak out his nose. "Friggin' disgustin'," Maroth mutters.

Aneirin sighs, lowering his staff. "If we kill them, chances are they'll blame the Dalish and attack them. Zathrian's clan is still nearby," he whispers low, finally giving Maroth pause.

He sighs, lowering his spear but still keeping it ready to attack. "Right, you win this time, Aneirin." He stops, a thought suddenly occurring to him. "Tell me, w'at were you shem doin' out in this forest, anyway? W'at were ya runnin' from? A bear? Wolves? I see nothin' chasin' ya," he comments, squinting behind them.

This time it's the blonde human who speaks, the first one being too busy babbling and wringing his hands together in fear to speak coherently. "We found a cave and there was this great big demon in there!" he exclaims, his fear palpable.

The third human nods, eyes frantic. "It was huge," he whispers, eyes wide.

Maroth feels his curiosity piqued at this. "A cavern, ya say? With a demon, right?"

Anerin shakes his head, slowly backing away. "No. No, no, no you can't possibly be thinking of going there, are you? You are, aren't you? Of course you are. Bloody shit," Aneirin says, shoulders slumped in defeat.

Maroth chuckles at his lover's uncharacteristic cussing. "Ya did promise an adventure, pet," he reminds the mage.

"Yes, yes," he mumbles. Aneirin glances at the humans, still standing there shaking. He lets out a weighted sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"You three, piss off, right?" Maroth gestures behind the shems, barely even glancing at them as they stand there, slack-jawed.

Aneirin clears his throat. "Before my friend changes his mind," he adds dryly, causing Maroth to chuckle low.

  
~*~*~

 

The Fade forms around her, its ever shifting forms making Melina nauseous. Her stomach clenches in pain as her head swims, spots forming before her eyes. She sways on her feet but manages to stay upright, trying to ignore the niggling feeling that she shouldn't be here, that she isn't ready.

The ground spins beneath her feet as she takes a hesitant step forward. Her legs are shaky as she takes in gulps of air, a cold bead of sweat trailing down her spine.

She closes her eyes, taking in a slow deep breath. She can't fail. She can't. When she opens her eyes again, the ground is more firm. Or as firm as anything in the Fade ever can be. She wanders for a bit, curiosity eventually taking hold of her as she stares at the strange statues and floating, white orbs.

One white orb in particular is larger than the rest and it floats around her ankles, blowing her skirts around as she walks. She giggles when it brushes against her skin, the strange sensation tickling her ankles. She wonders what it might be, and a soft whispering blows through her mind. No words, just a sound that mimics the wind.

But she can sense something coming from it, some sort of pure emotion that she can't quite identify. It glows brighter when she probes it with her mind, and she can tell that, for lack of a better word, the spirit has felt a similar tickling sensation to the one she had felt when it touched her a moment ago.

She shakes her head, curls bouncing, as the Spirit continues to follow her; humming happily in her head. She walks for what seems like hours without going anywhere, the path always leading her back to the same point. In frustration, she throws up her hands and looks at the glowing Spirit. "I don't suppose you know where it is I'm supposed to go?" she asks it, not really expecting an answer.

She sighs and turns, trying to pick a different path. She hears a low growl from in front of her, and gulps again. "Maker, give me strength," she whispers as she ignores her instinct to run the opposite direction. She takes a few hesitant steps toward the sound, forcing herself ever forward.

"Maker's breath, what in all of Thedas is that?" she squeals, bouncing on the heels of her feet in excitement.

A strange bear-like creature is sprawled out on the ground in front of her. Strange spikes protrude from its body, and part of its skin is pulled tightly around one eye, revealing too much of the gleaming white orb.

Strangely, she has a strong desire to pet the beast, but resists. It probably isn't bad logic to assume a demon-bear will not enjoy being petted like a house cat, she figures, fighting her urge. Melina startles when the beast opens it other eye, this one a sickly red instead of white, to stare at her, unblinking.

She curtsies out of habit. "P-Pardon me, Ser Demon, but are you perhaps my test?" she asks.

The bear creature chuckles. "Ah... no, I am... not. I am... too weary for such mortal games... child. Begone," it says, voice grumbling with a strange whisper behind it, as if two creatures are talking in unison.

She stuffs her hands in her pockets to resist scratching it behind its ears. She isn't that keen on being the things dinner. "Are you here to help me, then?" she asks, earning an amused chuckle from it.

The creature peers at her a moment. "Perhaps... you could amuse me, for a moment. Perhaps you will play... a game... with me, mortal child?"

She bites her lip and the glowing orb buzzes angrily around the demon bear; who scoffs.

"Tell your... pet light to quit pestering me, or I shall make a snack... of you both," it grumbles, swatting at it with his paw. The motion is sluggish and delayed, though, and he misses entirely.

She waves at the orb, hands frantic. "Come here, you. Please," she whispers, and it obeys, much to her surprise. She glances back at the bear, biting her lip again before nodding. "Alright. I-I'll play your game," she replies, voice as soft as a whisper.

The bear grunts, settling back down. "Fine, very well then. The one who invented it... doesn't want it. The one who bought it... doesn't need it. The one who needs... it doesn't know it. What is it?"

Melina frowns as her mind searches for an answer. The little glowing orb hums around her head, and a word comes to her in a sudden burst. "Coffin?" she repeats, confused by the word echoing around inside her head. "Oh! It's a coffin!" she exclaims, understanding the riddle at once.

The bear grumbles, shifting to lay on its side. "Ah yes, very clever, young one." It grumbles some more in a way that sounds like it's trying to clear its throat. "My scale is something that does not weigh in grams, ounces... or pounds. However, I may be heavy or... light. What am I?"

Melina grins, her smile bright against the dimness of the Fade. "This one is easy," she replies. "Musical scales."

The demon grunts again. "Such a witty... mortal, you are," it says. "Here is your final... test are you ready?"

Melina nods, curious what type of help the creature will offer in return.

"What gets broken without ever... being held?"

Her shoulders slump as uncertainty overwhelms her, negative emotions feeling twice as strong in the fade. She isn't any good at puzzles. Why did they think she could do this? Why did  _she_ think she could do this?

She holds back tears and takes in a deep breath, exhaling quickly. No, she won't let her fears defeat her. She can't. For Jalyn, and for Cullen, she has to survive this. Cullen will never forgive himself if he has to kill her, even if they both know it's only his duty. Besides, she had promised-

"Oh, Oh that's it! A promise!" she says, clapping her hands together in excitement.

The beast rolls its eye, the other one staying immobile. It's an eerie sight and a shiver runs down Melina's spine. "Well done... mortal. You sought a... prize... did you not?"

She nods again, hesitant. Should she really accept help from what appears to be a demon?

"Your prize... is simple. I... shall not eat... you," it replies.

There is a loud popping sound and smoke covers her eyes. It's thick and cloying as she sputters, clutching at her throat as she tries to breath through it. When it clears, and she can see once more, the demon bear is gone.

She spins around, looking for it, as the Fade starts to grow dim around her. A soft whisper follows her, calming her mind as she leaves the realm of dreams.

 

~*~*~

 

A sense of dread runs down Maroth's spine as he stares down the mouth of the dark cave. A rank smell emanates from it, and there's no light aside from his torch.

Aneirin raises his brow, leaning against his staff. "Afraid?" he asks, his tone without judgement.

Maroth shakes his head, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Ya daft? Not e'en a 'ittle bit, pet," he replies, forcing himself to stroll nonchalantly into the cavern.

Tiny spiders scurry out from in front of his boots, hiding from the lights of his torch and Aneirin's staff. Cobwebs cling to the corners and there's a layer of dust so thick Nesiara would've been frantic with a need to clean the place. He walks softly, taking comfort in Aneirin's echoing footsteps. He sees tiny relics as he goes; a broken chalice here and a half-shattered gem there. Nothing of value, just the bones of whatever or whoever lived here before, lost like something time forgot.

Aneirin stops dead in his tracks, brow furrowed as he stares up at a strange statue. Maroth peers at it, a strange cracked face worn with time and weather staring back. Its expression makes him feel uneasy, a strange shiver running down his spine.

Maroth frowns as he sidles up behind Aneirin. "What'sit?" he asks, resting his head on the mage's shoulder.

Aneirin shakes his head, and his hair tickles Maroth's nose. "I think it's one of the Dalish old gods, or whatever they call them. I saw something similar in Zathrian's camp, when I visited there for a time."

Maroth raises his brow. "So? It looks like an ol' elven temple then, w'at's so strange 'bout that?"

Aneirin blinks before responding. "The writing looks human," he replies.

Maroth sighs, moving away from Aneirin and the statue. "We won't make any coin off a statue. C'mon, let's see if those shems di'n't rob this place blind before they ran, the blighted cowards."

Aneirin shrugs. "As you wish."

A strange scuttling sound echoes above Maroth before he's knocked sideways by a gentle staff blast. He lands on his face, quickly scrambling to his feet and spinning around. His eyes grow wide as he sees a large spider, twice or more his size, reared up on his back legs, like it's about to pounce and make him its supper. Its body is frozen in a thick layer of ice, however, and can't move.

It shatters in a spray of ice crystals and spider bits as a large boulder slams into it from behind. Aneirin stands on the other side, a bead of sweat rolling down his face and a frown pulling his brows tight together.

Maroth grins, rolling his shoulders to release the tension that was beginning to settle there. "Well, t'at was fun. Thanks fer the spider shower," he quips.

Aneirin just stares at him a moment, blinking, before responding. "Yes, next time I'll allow it to eat you, my friend," he drawls.

"That's a bit 'asty, innit?" Maroth replies, looking around for his spear.

It had flown out his hands when he'd hit the ground, landing about a foot away. He grabs for it, glancing at the blood stained wood a moment, pulse quickening, before continuing onward down the passageways.

It’s Vaughn's blood, and the blood of his entire family. Maroth can feel his lips curling in a tight smile as he remembers the way Vaughn had begged and pleaded for his life before Maroth had run him through. If he'd had more time back then, the shems death would have been slow, and pain-filled, for his crimes.

The cavern has plenty of spiders lurking in its corners that keep both men battling almost constantly until their muscles protest in pain. But worse than the spiders, even with their venom dripping fangs, are the walking corpses. The bodies shuffle and scrape against the ground as they stumble toward the two elves, their eyes nothing but gaping, empty sockets. One manages to pin Maroth against the wall. Its rotting arms stronger than they should be considering the... whatever it is is supposed to be dead as it holds him immobile.

Its teeth are jagged and broken as its jaw snaps dangerously close to his face. A tiny spider crawls out of the its eye and Maroth struggles not to vomit berries all over the horrible creature.

The corpse explodes in a shower of dust, and Maroth lets out a slow breath of relief. "Thank the Maker for ya, Aneirin," he swears.

The mage shrugs, brow creased together in a thin line. "One would almost assume you were trying to get yourself killed, the way you've been fighting," Aneirin remarks as they continue walking.

The farther in they go, the fewer enemies they have to fight. And that thought alone makes Maroth shiver, knowing that means something must be further in that has kept the spiders away.

Now, the only thing that assaults them as they walk, footsteps echoing dimly, are a few stray corpses; though their attacks seem halfhearted, for some reason.

Aneirin stops outside a door, head shaking back and forth. "We shouldn't go in there, Tabris." His voice is shaky, and he takes a few steps backward. "Something's not right, rotting and sick, inside that room. It feels like death."

Maroth nods slowly, backing away from the door. "Right. No coin's worth that shite," he mumbles.

A burst of energy throws them both back as the door snaps open; a creature made of fire and rage burning before them. An unholy growl emanates from its throat as it lunges at them. Maroth roughly shoves Aneirin out of the way, taking the brunt force of the demon's blow.

His skin burns and itches, and he tries not to claw at it until it's a raw, open wound instead of this terrible burn that tears at his mind and flesh simultaneously. The pain is beyond anything he's ever experienced, a blinding pain that steals his senses.

He can taste it in the back of his throat, the thick smell of his own burning flesh heavy on his tongue. It tastes pungent and raw and he gags, struggling to breath past the worst physical pain he's ever felt. And in that moment, he would have said it hurt worse than losing his family, the way it tears at his body and mind.

A calm feeling flows over him as the nausea and gagging resides, quicker than it had came. Maroth spins his spear to lunge at the demon, feeling his skin reform under Aneirin's healing spell.

But the demon is stronger, and turns them around, pushing them further and further into the room. Maroth feels his back bump against something and turns, startling at his bloodied reflection in a strange, elven mirror. He doesn't have time to study it, or the strange shapes he sees in its surface, as the demon continues to attack relentlessly.

A clawed hand sweeps out at Maroth as he ducks and tumbles away, ending up behind the beast. He grins before ramming his weapon into the demon's back, plunging through where he guesses its heart must be, if it has a heart. A terrible roar echoes throughout the room, bouncing off the stone walls as the creature howls in rage and pain.

Slowly it melts into the ground, fading from view beneath the stone. Aneirin sighs, leaning back against the mirror with his eyes closed.

Maroth frowns as he notices something staring back at him from behind the glass. Its eyes glow blood red and he sees nothing else except the quick flash of a grin, it's jagged white teeth gleaming in the darkness. Before Maroth has the chance to call out a warning, fear making his heart pound wildly beneath his chest, Aneirin spins around.

His eyes are wide as he stares at it. "He's... watching me... drawing me... in. Maroth, run! Now!" He shouts the last part, voice growing more frantic with each word.

Maroth hesitates by the doorway, feet frozen to the ground, panicking in the heat of the moment. His hand reaches out for him, stretching, so close...

"RUN!" Aneirin shouts, using his magic to throw him from the room. He lands just outside the door with a thud, tailbone crashing against the ground. Pain shoots through his body, stealing his breath for a moment. His hands scramble for purchase as he pushes himself to his feet. He runs, the bones in his ankle making a strange clicking sound, pain vibrating up his leg with each step. And even now, he believes Aneirin must be right behind him. That he used his magic and pulled himself free. Aneirin isn't like Nesiara. Aneirin's a mage. Mages are powerful.

They can't just die because of a mirror...

Right?

 

~*~*~

 

  
The sky is bright blue as Melina walks close to Wynne. A calm breeze blows her curls in a tangle and Evelina hands her a tie to keep her hair up. She tries not look around at everything like a wide-eyed child, but she hasn't been outside since she was five-years-old. Back then, the boat ride had been frightening as it took her toward Kinloch Hold; now it's equally as frightening rowing away.

She can see the back of Jowan's head as the boy sits next to Uldred. She scowls before sighing, bringing her attention back to the world around her. She looks over the edge of the boat at her warped reflection. Evelina nudges her with her elbow. "Scared?" she asks.

Melina nods. "A little. But it's so beautiful out here, isn't it?"

Wynne glances at her out of the corner of her eye. "Don't get lost in this temporary freedom child. After our duty is fulfilled, we'll be returning once more to where we belong."

"I won't, I promise," Melina whispers solemnly.

The grass crunches beneath her feet as they leave the boat, and a butterfly circles a bright purple flower. It really is beautiful, Melina thinks once more. She wishes Jalyn and Cullen could be here too, enjoying the wonders she's seeing.

She watches Jowan as they travel south, a burning distaste clawing around her stomach. She can't stop the thought that it should be Jalyn here, not Jowan. She closes her eyes, the sun warm against her fair skin. A fresh breeze blows, and the smell of flowers fills her senses. She's never smelled such a sweet scent before and her heart aches to be able to name the plant. She pictures Jalyn's face, scowling in the sunlight, before her eyes flutter open again. A dull ache has settled itself in her heart, but as she marches dutifully behind Wynne it shifts to a sharper pain, like a thousand needles poking her with each quickened beat.

Melina hides her shaking hands in the heavy cotton folds of her dress, shifting her gaze from the back of Jowan's head to Uldred's. His bald head gleams, like a polished orb in the yellow glow. She lets her shields slip, trying to sense that tingle of dark magic she had felt from him before. But if it's there, it's hidden well because all she can feel is a hollow emptiness from him. With a soft sigh, she puts her shields back in place, keeping a barrier firmly erected between the empathetic powers that allow her to commune with kind, healing spirits and the chaotic whirl of emotions belonging to the younger mages with them.

 

*~*~*

 

Maroth stops running as the realization that Aneirin isn't behind him hits like a strong punch to the stomach, bile and fear rising in his throat. His heart speeds up, which he wouldn't have considered possible since he's already terrified beyond belief, but the thought of losing Aneirin stops him cold in a way he hasn't felt since his wife was first kidnapped.

He turns to go back when a loud boom echos behind him, throwing him forward again. He flies through the air, heat and tainted magic burning behind him.

His head cracks against something hard, a sharp pain splintering his vision. As the sunlight fades from view, Maroth can't tell if the sun is setting or if he's losing consciousness. His final thoughts are of Aneirin, and the rare moments the man had smiled for him.

  
*~*~*

 

"Why so pensive, Amell?" Evelina says as she slows down to walk beside her.

Melina lets a soft sigh escape her lips as she looks around at the open fields around them. Her mind is a blur of memories of Jalyn and Cullen, heart thundering like war drums beneath her breast as she realizes how alone she is. "It's so big," she says instead, offering the older mage a small smile. "I guess I never thought that it'd be so big out here, is all."

Evelina frowns, peering at her through narrowed eyes. "You sure that's all, kid?"

This time it's Melina who frowns, lips pursed, but she hides it with her mane of white-blonde curls. "Of course, Enchanter," she replies, curtsying as she walks.

"Uh-huh. Well, don't be scared about the battle kid. They'l give you a nice, safe job your first battle."

"But, I'll be there to heal. I can't heal from far away," Melina replies, tilting her head. It makes no sense in her mind that they would bring a Spirit Healer to do anything other than heal. Especially not one with her low level of talent in any form of practical battle magic. She sighs again, a heavy weight settling in her chest at the thought of the battle looming on her horizon.

Evelina shrugs her shoulders, her long brown hair falling her her matching brown eyes. "Because the last thing they need is one of the ones on their side turning into an abomination under pressure. They want to make sure you can handle it." She glances to the sky, a wistful expression crossing her face as they walk. "They say killing anything can take a lot out of you, even if the thing you're killing is just a twisted darkspawn monster. Death leaves a stain on man's soul, and our souls are already stained with sin." Evelina turns, shooting her a quick grin. "Or, that's what someone like Keili would say, right?"

As Evelina chuckles, Melina shakes her head in disagreement. "Kellie only wants to follow the Maker's plan and atone for our magic," she replies, voice whisper soft.

"We don't have anything to atone for," Evelina mutters under her breath, glancing sidelong at the templars marching on either side of them.

Wynne turns her head, eyes solemn and patient. "Be careful of your words, for our protectors hear better than you think, young Enchanter."

She shrugs, shoulders poking through her loose robes. "Right, our protectors," she mocks, voice hushed. Evelina scowls beneath her side fringe, lips in a thin line. "May the Andraste bless you, Senior Enchanter, for your ever unwarranted advice."

"Evelina," Melina exclaims, shock making her almost stop dead in her tracks.

Wynne chuckles softly. "Don't worry, child. I'm not so old that I can't beat a former apprentice with my cane for impudence, even if they are an Enchanter themselves now."

Evelina scoffs, rolling her eyes with a tiny smile. "Ah, you're nothing but an old biddy, using your staff as a common walking stick. Besides, if you beat me, I won't be able to fight in the oncoming battle. Such a shame that would be," she replies.

"What makes you presume your skills are so invaluable that you'll be missed? Such arrogance," Wynne quips back, and Meline hides a giggle behind her hand.

Melina can't help but smile as she continues to enjoy their casual banter. She wishes she were bold enough to join in but she doesn't really know what to say. Besides, she enjoys listening and observing, now that she's finally learned to shield with success.

She can only hope she'll be useful in the battle, too.

 

~*~*~

 

It should be destroyed. Maroth knows it, feels it in the pit of his stomach. Guilt and self-loathing rip into him. He is the bringer of death or pain to everyone he's ever known. For a moment, he wonders if Merrill and her clan are safe with his daughter, or if they'd died like everyone else.

But he pushes the morbid thought aside, refusing to acknowledge even the possibility of his daughter's death. Not now. Especially not now. Instead, he focuses on his desire to avenge Aneirin, and destroy the blasted mirror. He turns, heading in the opposite direction until he finds the camp spot he had first stayed at with the solitary mage. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, before stepping forward to enter the Dalish camp.

"'Ello, Mithra," he says, staring down the wrong end of an arrow.

  
~*~*~

 

The firelight casts an eerie glow over the shadowed faces of her fellow mages, or at least the ones who were still awake. Melina wraps her shawl tight around her rounded shoulders, staring into the dancing flames as they lap at the logs. Ashes blow in the soft breeze, twirling around with the smoke.

She takes a deep breath as Niall scoots closer to her, tugging at her shawl. Melina offers him a smile and holds out an edge to share the warmth. Niall clears his throat, chewing thoughtfully on his lip.

"Have you seen a darkspawn before, Senior Enchanters?" he asks, looking toward Wynne and Uldred.

Uldred scoffs, taking a long swig from a metal container. "Of course not. There's been no blight in so long. We're sure to see some on the way to Ostagar, boy."

"Such dramatics, Uldred, my my," Wynne says, shaking her head as her lips twitch upward. "They're said to be tainted creatures, cast down from the once Golden City for their sin of greed and for stepping where mortals should not be seen."

"Chantry myth to scare Thedas into fearing and hating mages twice as much," Uldred shoots back, voice quiet.

"It may be allegory, meant to teach us the dangers of magic and greed, but at least it gives one something to think on." Wynne keeps her back straight as she pokes a stick in to the log, turning it to catch brighter in the flames. Her expression looks far away, as if she can see something in the fire noone else can see.

"I think-" Melina begins, twisting the fabric of her dress in her plump hands.

Evelina scoffs, standing to her feet. "Yer both nutters," she mutters, and Melina's heart clenches at the Denerim accent creeping through. It's the same accent Jalyn would have each time she felt angry, or frustrated.

Melina bites her lips, her sentence lost in the crackling of burning wood and tension. Evelina turns abruptly on her heel, marching over toward her bedroll with a mocking salute to the nearest templar.

Wynne sighs, causing Melina to look toward her mentor. "That girl is going to get herself into trouble one day for that propensity."

"Trouble? Or freedom, Wynne? Which one do you fear more?" Uldred gets to his feet, staring down at them. "You're all fools if you think magic is some sort of sin. Magic is a gift. Meant to serve, and be used, not wasted and locked away in some Maker forsaken tower."

Wynne raises a single eyebrow as she stares up, unblinking, at Uldred. Her body is held with a quiet stillness as the moon cast a white glow on her silver hair. "You speak of this idea of freedom as if it can be so easily obtained. Our magic is dangerous, and more easily twisted to harm than a mere sword or arrow."

Uldred's upper lip curls in clear disgust before he, too, turns toward his bedroll. Niall leans his head into one hand, brow furrowed. "We should just stay away somewhere, away from everyone else."

Jowan frowns, shifting nervously in his spot. Melina startles, having forgotten the man was there, hiding in the shadows like a snake. She glares at him, eyes narrowed as chews on his lip. "I- I think we should just focus on the battles to come," Jowan says, eyes glued to the ground.

 _Blood mage._ She thinks the phrase with more venom than she's ever felt.

Wynne nods, smiling softly. "Truer words have yet to be spoken tonight, child," she says, folding her hands in her lap.

Melina shoots to her feet, curtsying toward Wynne. "I think I'm tired, Enchanter Wynne. Goodnight, and may Andraste protect you in your dreams." She turns, ignoring Jowan as she walks with faint footsteps and a heavy heart.

The flames twist and dance in the shimmering silver armour of the nearest templar. Melina watches it, blanket drawn tight to hide her face. She focuses on the patterns and shapes, thoughts drifting as her eyelids slowly grow leaden with sleep.

She hates him. She knows she shouldn't, that only the Maker has the right to place such judgement. Hate is a strong emotion, screaming at the demons to crowd closer in glee. Melina knows she shouldn't hate anyone, least of all someone who was loved by someone she cares for so deeply.

But she does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is very appreciated!

Jalyn's mind is a quiet space, an empty space filled with a single-minded task to follow orders. Sometimes, when the circle is quiet and the mages have gone to bed, she can remember the feelings she held before the tranquility. Far away, like a distant fog she can't touch, she never feels the emotions but the memories they created still swirl around her mind sometimes.

But she doesn't miss them. She doesn't miss the people she knew, doesn't feel sad over her loss. She feels nothing at the stirring of memories below the surface haze.

She overhears the blonde templar, Cullen, talking of a war. Some sort of monster, a thing they call darkspawn, have become a horde on the surface. Cullen meets Sister Lily's eyes; her red hair pulled into a ponytail as she hears his confession.

"I am worried for her safety. I cou-couldn't live with myself if she died when I- I could have protect-tected her." His voice is soft, like a whisper, but the cadence is high pitched, almost keening, filled with fear and regret.

Sister Lily curves her lips into a smile, skin stretching and crinkles forming around her eyes. "I don't think the Maker would call friendly concern a sin, Ser Cullen," she says, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Cullen scoffs. "Friendly. Right," he mutters, shaking his head as his face shifts from the pale grey colour of those who haven't seen sunlight in awhile to a bright red, flushed as he looks at the ground. "Forgive me Maker, for I have sinned." He crosses his heart, closing his eyes with a hefty sigh.

Their words are meaningless to Jalyn, but a flash of memory enters her mind at his tone of the Amell mage caught in a shadowed embrace with the templar, a brief press of lips that can barely be called a kiss. There was an emotion there, once. Conflicting. Colliding.

But she can't bring it forward. She looks down at her hands, filled with supplies from the stockroom. She takes a step forward, meeting Senior Enchanter Leorah's eyes. "I have need of these ingredients." She speaks the words slowly, focused, direct, handing her a list of things.

Leorah peers down her nose, squinting at her. "Right. Uh, Surana." She pauses, looking away and shifting her body.

"I am making you uncomfortable." Jalyn says the words plainly, unblinking, hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.

"Huh? Oh, uh, no! Well, a little," she admits with a shrug. "Well, no matter. What shall I say these are for?"

Jalyn looks back down at the supplies, an assortment of lyrium, etching agents, and runes. "Enchantments."

Enchanter Leorah nods. "Right. Maker's blessings to, uh, oh... ." She trails off, though Jalyn doesn't understand why or why the woman appears discomforted.

She turns, unconcerned, and heads toward her enchantment table. She empties her mind of thought, focusing solely at the task at hand. Greagoir says the soldier's in the war need more enchanted weapons and armour. She's good at enchantments, her thin hands moving deftly as a gentle buzzing echos in her mind, and she finds the work to be quite agreeable.

 

~*~*~

 

Maroth looks around the Dalish camp, eyes wide and heart beating fast beneath his chest. Many of the Dalish lay on the ground, faces pale beneath their tans. Their vallaslin stands out in stark relief as sweat rolls down their skin. Their cries of pain tug at his heart and he forces himself to look away, to meet Keeper Zathrian's eyes. The man's gaze is a mix between forlorn and bitter anger, the golden brown orbs filled with the pain of his people and the hopelessness they all face.

"Shite," Maroth whispers, crossing his heart. "What in the Maker's name 'appened here, Zathrian?"

The Keeper narrows his eyes, gripping his staff tightly in his hand, knuckles white. "Have you not seen, flat ear? The werewolves in the forest attack my people. I haven't the time for whatever it is you want. Go back to your shemlen masters, and leave us be."

Maroth growls low in his throat, clenching his fists. "The shems are  _not_ my masters, so watch yer tongue baldy," he replies, voice low with anger.

Zathrian raises an eyebrow, contempt clear on his lined face. "My people need me, flat ear. What do you want? I am surprised to see your pet mage is not here with you."

Grief gnaws at his heart as he glares at the Keeper. "Aneirin is dead," he says, tone short. Pain clenches around his heart, driving the breath from him as he struggles not to let it consume him. 

This seems to give the Dalish Keeper pause, his expression softening only slightly. "Then I am sorry for your loss. He was killed by a werewolf, no doubt? The beasts plague us all."

Maroth shakes his head, running a hand through a tangle of his hair. "No, it was a friggin' mirror that killed him."

"A... mirror? Truly?" Zathrian's tone is incredulous as he stares back at Maroth, unblinking. "And you came here? Why?"

He shrugs his shoulders, a sigh escaping his lips. "Before Aneirin died, he said some strange shite. Something about a Dalish statue with shem writings. Bunch of frigging weird shite, it was, but figured you might have an idea w'at it was?"

"I might, flat ear," Zathrian says, shaking his head. "But I cannot help you. We can barely help ourselves right now."

Maroth looks around at the frightened Dalish as they care for their injured, heart skipping a beat. "Then, maybe I can help you, if ya help me once this beasty problem is done?"

Zathrian scoffs, turning away. "You are no warrior, flat ear. You are of no use to us. Begone," he replies, his robes swishing nosily as he walks away.

"Friggin' asshat," Maroth mutters.

A soft chuckle causes him to turn his head, meeting the grey-blue eyes of Lanaya. "W'at you laughin' at? Think it's funny, do ya, the  _flat ear_ askin' fer help? Noisy little shites, the lot of ya," he grumbles, glaring.

Lanaya frowns, brow crinkling. "I meant no offense, friend. You must forgive Zathrian, he does not mean to be so short tempered. The plight of our clan weighs heavily on his mind, is all."

Maroth lets out a rude snort, making an obscene gesture at the Keeper's back. "He's still an arsehole, yeah?"

"Oh no, he's actually very kind," Lanaya replies, tone full earnest. "Please, you mustn't be angry. He would offer his help, if there were help to give."

Maroth just shrugs, turning away, shoulders slumped in defeat. The prospect of trying to destroy the mirror on his own is daunting indeed. Magic always gave him the willies, and this magic is stranger than most he's encountered. The fear in Anerin's voice still echos in his mind, a sound that terrifies him and breaks his heart all at once. Never in all the time he has- had- known the mage had he ever heard even a smidgen of fear. The tainted aura from that mirror is so strong, even Maroth can feel it, though. What must it have been like for Aneirin to be caught in its grasp? Probably friggin' terrible. Maroth suppresses a shiver, trying to banish the wave of terror enveloping his mind.

"Wait, friend," Lanaya calls out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Do you truly mean to help?"

He glances at the pretty lass over his shoulder, offering her a wry grin. "You'd accept help from a flat ear like me, then?"

She bites her lip, clearly hesitating, before nodding her head. "I only want to save my people," she whispers. "Please." 

 

~*~*~

 

Melina picks at her crust of bread, sun beating down on the back of her neck. The weather has shifted from cool, rainy days to hotter days that make beads of sweat roll off her face. It's strange that the weather isn't all the same, everywhere. She wonders if that's the way of it everywhere, or just here in Ferelden. She closes her eyes, the grass soft beneath her bare feet and ankles. Her robe is thick, a heavy wool that feels suffocating.

The ripping of cloth makes her heart jump, stuttering in fear. Her eyes fly open and she turns her head, glancing over her shoulder. She looks up at Evelina, whose legs are suddenly bare. A piece of ripped cloth, presumably from the bottom of her robes, is held in her hand.

"Maker's breath, Evelina! What in Thedas are you doing?" Melina asks, cheeks turning red with second-hand embarrassment.

Evelina laughs, causing most of the nearby templars to frown. "It's hot, and these robes are heavy," she says, grinning.

Wynne comes over, a long robe in hand. "And also the only protection we have, girl. Now go on and put this on behind that bush over there. Templar Raisa will escort you and please, don't rip this one," she orders.

Evelina scowls, snatching the garment from Wynne. "Fine. But it's still bloody hot."

Wynne crosses her arms as they walk toward a large nearby bush. "Imagine how hot heavy metal armour is then," she quips, wrinkled lips pulled down in a tight frown.

Melina looks around at the templars, their faces red and sweaty. "I wish there was something we could do to help them," she says, voice soft.

Wynne nods, patting her head. "I know, child," she replies, walking away.

"Alright you lot, as soon as that one finishes getting dressed properly, we'll be on our way again. I'd like to reach Ostagar by nightfall so we can all rest easy," Knight-captain Hadley says, a calm expression on his face.

She pushes herself to her feet, brushing stray bits of grass off her robes.

"Melina?"

Her head jerks up as she glares at Jowan, shoulders tightening. "What do you want?" she asks, keeping her voice as calm as possible.

He frowns, fingers twisting around the hem of his sleeve. "I just wanted you to know that I, uh, that is I don't think Jalyn would want us to be enem-"

"Jalyn is tranquil because of you," Melina interrupts, voice lowered to a hiss. "You have no right to speak on what she would want."

Her shields are shaky and she can feel the heavy weight of his emotions, a sharp pain ripping at her chest and sending scalding hot waves across her skin. An ache so deep it makes her want to die cascades from Jowan. She clenches her fists, knuckles turning white. "Don't use your blood magic on me," she accuses, refusing to believe the mage harbours genuine feelings, other than a lust for power.

Jowan's eyes widen, brows disappearing behind his bangs. "What? You think I'd be foolish enough to try that here of all places? With bloody templars surrounding us? I made a promise to Jalyn, that I'd never touch blood magic again. I won't break that promise, not even on my life." He shakes his head, lips twisting into a frown. "I know you won't believe me. It doesn't matter."

Melina folds her arms over her breasts, biting her lower lip. She takes a deep breath, bringing her shields back up, before speaking. "What do you want, Jowan?"

Jowan shrugs, rubbing his thumb along his finger. "You were her friend. I know she cared about you a lot. So, be careful on the battlefield. She wouldn't have wanted you to get hurt."

Melina clenches her jaw. She knows he's lying. Jalyn never cared about her. She wouldn't have left her like this if she had. "Liar," she says, voice rising. "You're nothing but a filthy liar!" she continues, this time shouting.

A gloved hand connects with her lip. "You, spirit talker, keep your mouth shut, ya hear?" he says.

The pain is small, a soft pulsing mostly in her lips, but a tiny spot of blood trickles toward her chin. She isn't angry over the blow, she knows she deserves it for letting her anger get the best of her. She knows better. Because she speaks with spirits to do the more complex healing spells, her, and mages like her, are feared even more than the average mage. Communing with spirits means Melina has to keep a tight reign on her emotions. The smallest bit of anger or lust can twist even the smallest of spirits into a terrible demon. She's being foolish, and she well knows it. 

She looks at Jowan, taking in his wide eyes and madly fluttering pulse, like a trapped butterfly in his throat. "Melina... I-"

Melina shakes her head, turning and walking toward Wynne. She doesn't speak, doesn't cry. She keeps her head straight and still as she moves, barely even blinking as she focuses on remaining calm. Niall meets her there, a tiny jar of elfroot in his hand.

"I'm fine, Niall. I don't need any healing balm," she replies with a curtsy, lip still throbbing.

Niall frowns. "You do. But you'll never admit it."

They stop only once more on their long march to Ostagar. Melina hums to herself as she relieves her bladder on the side of the road, a crooked tree blocking her from view. She's grateful they've finally stopped for a rest, her ankles are sore and the discomfort from holding her bladder for so long had started to hurt.

"I don't think she's ready for this, Wynne. I know _why_ she's here, but she's just too young still," Evelina whispers nearby, and Melina freezes.

She strains her ear to hear Wynne's hushed reply. "I know, but she's a good girl. She has a good heart."

Evelina snorts. "Kindness isn't enough, and you know it."

"Hush now, it does us no good to whisper about, gossiping like this."

Melina's heart pounds rapid fire against her ribs. They don't trust her. They don't think she's strong enough, even though she's passed her Harrowing.

Cold tears flow down her cheeks as she shifts over, kneeling down in the nearby grass. She clutches her robes in her hands, shoulders heaving with silent sobs. Loneliness claws at her, doubt creeping its terrible tendrils through her mind and convincing her of her uselessness. Taking a deep breath, she straightens her spin and slowly gets back up.

She refuses to let her emotions overwhelm her as she continues onward, marching alongside her fellow mages. She positions herself as far away from Jowan and Uldred as possible, standing between the templars and Wynne. Her muscles ache with pain, unused to so much walking. She misses the safety of the tower, the quiet hum of magic and the crackling of fires to chase out the drafty cold. The world outside is pretty, but fear snakes its way into her heart, thick tendrils twisting what she sees until all the wants is to go home, back to Kinloch Hold.

Ostagar is loud, minstrels sing and play music while the men drink, laughing by the fire. Melina stares with wide eyes, nose crinkling at the sharp astringent smell wafting in the air.

Evelina nudges her shoulder. "That's ale and whiskey you smell, kid."

Melina just nods, eyes still wide as she watches the soldiers. One of them turns to her, face chiseled with a scar running across his nose. He grins at her, winking. She tries to smiles back, nerves getting the better of her, and Evelina grabs her wrist.

"Don't look at the men, stupid. Most of 'em haven't seen a girl in months," she whispers in Melina's ear.

"Oh." Melina chews her lower lip for a moment. "What does that mean, exactly, Evelina?"

Evelina groans. "For the love of the Maker. It means they're wanting for sex, kid. Just, stay away, alright?"

Cheeks beating cherry red, Melina nods her head. "Right, of course."

The Knight-captain claps his hands, looking out at them with tired eyes. "And off to sleep, all of you. It's late, and we'll need you at your brightest tomorrow morning!"

Tents have already been made for them, so Melina crawls into her bedroll and closes her eyes, exhaustion making he whole body feel heavy. She's not used to this much marching and her muscles still ache with pain.

As sleep claims her, she slips into the Fade, body weightless and free as she calmly walks around. It feels peaceful, calm, and a glowing orb hovers near a pool of green water. She walks over to it, smiling as she hears it humming. A soft, high-pitched sound that reminds her of singing echos from the orb.

Melina curtsies to it before sitting down, staring up at with drooping eyes. She's never felt more relaxed in her life as she listens to the spirit orb talk. No words, but pictures gently flow through her mind, a story lost to time. She responds in kind, sharing memories of her own of her time in the circle.

Melina frowns up at the spirit. "I'm sorry, Ser Spirit. I haven't many memories to share, and none so interesting as your own stories."

It hums a little, bouncing as it hovers in the air. Another wave of calm washes over and she smiles, grateful the spirit doesn't seem to mind. It feels nice, to talk like this, quietly and without fear or judgement floating around her like a thick, oppressive blanket.

Suddenly, the spirit makes a strange sound, and Melina feels something similar to panic from it. She turns, eyes widening when she sees the flash of an old woman, hair long and white, before the orb vanishes. Images of a man in silver and blue armour flashes in her mind, carefully styled blonde hair and a rampant griffon on his shield. A sense of urgency to stay close to him overwhelms her, making her body tremble.

As she leaves the fade, she begins to forget, the memories of this encounter leaving her mind like water trickling out through a sieve. Only one image still remains with her as she blinks, the sunlight pouring in through her open tent and blinding her vision.

The woman had unnaturally yellow eyes.

The hustle and bustle of Ostagar is overwhelming as Melina walks closely behind Niall and Evelina, exploring the camp with Wynne's permission. Evelina is nearby, buying healing potions as ordered.

Melina hovers near two men talking, one with short brownish black hair and narrow eyes, and the other with long brown hair with a reddish tint to it.

"Well, you're not who I thought you'd be," the more squirrelly of the two says.

The other man, a shield strapped to his back, raises an eyebrow. "Oh? And what did you think I would be?" he asks, tone harbouring hints of amusement.

The thin man shrugs. "Not a fancy noble, that's for sure. The name's Daveth. You're here early, that's good. What's your name, friend?"

"You know I'm a noble but not my name?" he replies, lips quirking into a smile.

Daveth chuckles. "I know you're a Cousland, just not which one," he admits, glancing over at Melina and winking.

"Bryce. My name's Bryce, named after my father," he replies, voice cracking slightly, but the smile kept firmly in place. She can feel grief flowing from him in warm waves, a sharp pain that he shoves down below the surface.

"Well, Brycy," Daveth replies, gesturing at Melina, "it looks like we have an audience."

Byrce turns around, catching sight of Melina and grinning. "So we have." He bows low, a smirk on his face. "Hello, Milady."

Daveth grins, eyes gleaming. "What a lovely woman we have here, Brycy." He offers her another wink before continuing. "You looking for some company, sweetheart?" he asks, voice a rich murmur.

Melina blushes bright pink. "I- I, uh," she stutters out, eyes wide.

Cousland grins, clasping Daveth on the shoulder. "Sorry, my good fellow, but I'm more of a man's man, if you get my meaning," he says with a chuckle. "I'll leave this one for you."

Daveth smiles back. "How kind of you," he quips. "So, any last wishes I can help fulfill before you head into battle? Life is fleeting you know. That pretty face could be decorating some darkspawn spear this time tomorrow."

Niall sidles up to her, glaring at Daveth. "Come on, Melina. Evelina is done shopping, so we should head back to our camp." He tugs at her wrist, pulling her away from the man and his crude suggestion.

Melina nods, curtsying toward Daveth. "Good day, Ser. Pardon me," she whispers, before hurrying away. As they're heading back toward camp, Melina pauses. "Niall, is there a Revered Mother or Chantry sister here?"

Niall nods, jerking his thumb to their left. "Over there, and up those stairs by the merchant stall, by the old statue. Want for company?"

She shakes her head, curtsying before she turns to leave. "No, I just want to pray for a bit before the battle tonight. I'm feeling a bit nervous," she admits, before scampering off in the direction Niall had pointed her. As she goes, she can just barely hear Evelina mutter something in response, a faint whisper she wishes she hasn't heard.

"How boring."

Melina listens to the Chantry sister, eyes closed, hands folded neatly in her lap. She lets the words of the Maker wash over her, a soothing balm to her fluttering heart. She's not sure for how many hours she sits there, listening to the sermons, before the sister addresses her.

"Ah, one of the mages fresh from the circle. Will you accept the Maker's blessing?" the woman asks, a kind smile on her wholesome face.

Melina blinks at her, twisting the fabric of her robe in her hands. "But I 'm a mage, will He truly bless me?"

The Sister nods. "I merely pass on the Maker's blessing. He looks kindly on all who will receive him."

The young mage smiles, heart suddenly lighter than it has been since she left Kinloch Hold. "I would gladly accept your blessing, Sister." She kneels down, bowing her head toward the ground.

"In the name of Andraste, I bless you today. May you find favour in the Maker's eyes," the sister replies, holding a hand above Melina's head. 

Melina gets to her feet and gives the sister a low curtsy. "Thank you, Sister. May the Maker watch over us all in the days to come."

She turns, bumping into a burly man with closely cropped hair. "Beg pardon, Milday," he mumbles, moving to kneel before the Sister. 

"Oh! uh, of course," she replies, cheeks heating up in embarrassment as she rushes off to find Wynne across the camp. She smiles when the sees her mentor, but the smile quickly fades into a frown as she notices Jowan standing there with her.

A heavy weight has settled in Melina's chest. Fear of the battle to come, and eagerness to prove herself, all mix together as she stands dutifully in front of Wynne, waiting for orders. Wynne offers her a small smile. "Alright, you two," she begins, looking back and forth between Melina and Jowan, "we've heard word from Teyrn Loghain that the Tower of Ishal needs clearing out. Since this is your first battle, you'll be assigned there to assess your placement in oncoming battles. You need to clear out the tower so that the Grey Wardens leading the charge to light the signal beacon have a clear route. Understood?"

Melina nods her head, resisting the urge to glare at Jowan with a burning hatred she knows she shouldn't feel. "I will do my best, Wynne," she replies, curtsying to her beloved mentor.

"Your best isn't good enough, Amell. We need you to do better than that, can you do it?" Wynne asks, not unkindly.

The young mage swallows, a small bead of sweat trickling down her forehead. "Yes, ma'am," she replies. "I won't fail you, I promise."

She hurries to the Tower of Ishal with Jowan at her side, her carved wooden staff in hand. As soon as the enter the crumbling tower, the stench of darkspawn is thick in the air, and Melina struggles not to gag. Her stomach churns as their innate darkness threatens to overwhelm her. Her magic flickers, unable to draw breath, as one of the monsters charges her. She can't even scream as the mace comes nearer, her vision narrowed on the menacing weapon. The world around her seems to slow as she stands there, paralyzed with fear.

Jowan knocks into her, shoving her out of the way of the darkspawn's blow. They roll on the ground, a tangle of limbs, before he moves to fling a spell at the beast. She doesn't even have time to thank him, shocked to her core that he would try so hard to save her.

He draws up his own magic, and she can feel that it's clean, free of corruption. Frowning, she struggles to her feet to join him in battle against the great beasts, pushing away her doubts. She casts a paralyze glyph on the ground, holding the creature in place as Jowan throws a massive boulder at it with his mana.

A sharp pain shoots through her shoulder, stealing her breath as she falls to her knees. Melina cries out, a high pitched sound that pierces the air. She turns to see a tall darkspawn looming over her, saliva dripping from its mouth. A dog leaps toward it, growling as it sinks it's teeth in to the monster's twisted flesh.

"Never fear, Mi'lady, Lord Cousland is here to save the day! And I brought these other louts with me, as well," a voice says, ringing with cocky assurance.

She recognizes the voice instantly as the man from before, the one called Bryce Cousland the Second. She offers him a smile a gratitude and a small curtsy, and breathes of a small sigh of relief that the battle is over. At least, for now.

She glances over at the two men with him. She recognizes one as Daveth, but the other she's never seen before. His blonde hair is carefully styled in the front and his golden brown eyes shine with determination and kindness. She lets down her shields, searching their emotions. Her breath catches in her throat as she recognizes a dark tainted spot inside their minds.

"You're the Grey Wardens," she whispers, chastising herself for not having noticed their armour sooner.

The blonde smiles gently at her. "Yes, that's right. Name's Alistair. Sorry we don't have time to chat, but we need to reach the top of the tower right away."

A harsh warning rips through her mind and she scrambles to her feet. "Wait! I will join you. I'm a Spirit Healer, you- you might be of need of me," she says, forcing herself to meet Alistair's steady gaze.

Daveth nudges him with his shoulder. "Can't hurt to have a healer with us, right? Come on then, pretty thing, let's go."

Alistair nods, releasing a small sigh. "Alright, we could use the help, all things considered. There aren't even supposed to _be_ any darkspawn here," he mutters with a shake of his head.

Jowan bites his lip next to her before speaking. "I want to go as well. I don't want to stay down here by myself," he says, voice soft. He glances over at Melina, eyes pleading.

She wants to tell him no, that they don't need the help of a blood mage. But he had saved her life a moment ago. She can hardly let him stay alone, where he might die. She gives him a curt nod before looking away, reaching for her staff on the ground. It feels cool against her hand, and she's grateful for the familiar comfort it brings.

Cousland grins, winking toward Jowan. "You're coming along, too then? I'll watch your backside, if you watch mine, sweet thing?"

Jowan blushes beet red, eyes widening slightly. "I- I uh..." he stutters, causing Daveth to laugh.

"I think ya flustered the poor kid, Brycy. Try to be a bit more subtle with yer flirting, right?" Daveth says with a chuckle.

Alistair groans, walking toward the stairway that will lead them to the next floor. "Maker preserve me," he whispers, a small half-smile tugging at his lips.

 

~*~*~

 

Maroth stares at the two Dalish elves in front of him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. One seems to be an elder, with his dark grey hair pulled back in a short ponytail. His stormy grey eyes hold a grief so strong it staggers Maroth for a moment before he's forced to look away. The other one is a woman, her dark brown hair cut short and an angry scowl etched on her pointy face. He glances over at Lanaya, lips twisting down in a frown.

"So, whats this, then? Two of yer hunters is all you think I need to slay this "Witherfang", right? Fat lot of chance that has," he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. "Fools the lot of ya."

The one named Panowen narrows her eyes, rubbing the pad of her thumb along her dagger. "My blade is strong, flat ear, and I will slay any of the werewolves that stand in our way," she replies, her voice a deep growl.

"Right, that's a healthy attitude, then." Maroth shakes his head, shifting his gaze to the one called Athras. "And w'at say you, old man?"

Athras frowns, the lines around his eyes deepening. "I may be old, child, but my bow arm is still steady. The creatures murdered my wife, Danyla. You have my oath that I will not waver."

Maroth's eyes widen at the man's words. An image of Nessy flashes in his mind before he dips his head in respect. "Sorry fer yer loss, then," he mumbles.

He turns again toward Lanaya, heart heavy with trepidation. "Just us three, right? Or are you comin' long, too?"

Lanaya bites her lip, brows furrowed in thought. "Aye, I will come with and offer my magic. Zathrian will not approve, so we should move fast before he notices we are gone."

Maroth nods his head, a quick jerk, before making his way toward the edge of camp. The sun offers little heat as it sinks over the horizon, and Maroth wonders for a moment at the wisdom of doing battle in the dark. He tries to keep his mind clear as he walks along the forest, his companions close behind him and Lanaya at his side. A bright glow lights their path, coming from the mage's staff. It's hard to look at the woman; her eyes remind him of his sweet Nessy. He grips his weapon tightly in his hand as rabid growls echo around him. Fear stops him cold as a small group of the weres charge them. Twisting vines shoot up from the ground, gripping one the beasts and holding it still. Maroth lets out a battle cry before leaping toward it, impaling the monster with his spear.

The beast cries out in pain, a horrid shriek that pierces the air with its morbid sound. A chill runs down Maroth's spine as he fights alongside the Dalish hunters and Lanaya, thanking Andraste as the last one falls. They soon fall into a steady rhythm, walking a few paces before engaging in battle only to repeat the process over again. Even the trees soon rise up against them, their great branches knocking into him as he wonders how in the void you kill a friggin' tree. Lanaya's magic seems to hold they key as she slays the mad sylvans, eyes narrowed in fevered concentration.

With each step through the forest, he begins to hate nature more and more. He even begins to miss the city, with its crumbling buildings and the stench of desperation that permeated the place. What he wouldn't give for a warm bed and trees that stand still like they should.

His body feels weary as they stand before a large tree. Maroth leans on his spear, wiping the sweat from his brow, before speaking. "We oughtta rest," he says, meeting Lanaya's eyes. "I'm bloody tired, and this forest is giving me the jitters."

The mage woman is about to answer, lips parted, when the ground shakes beneath their feet.

"What manner of beast be thee, that comes before this Elder Tree?"

Maroth spins around, eyes wide. His heart skips a beat as he watches the great tree move its branches, staring down at him with wooden eyes. "What the friggin' shite are you?" He whispers the question, crossing his heart in fear.

The tree shifts, leaves shaking as it moves. "Allow me a moment to welcome thee. I am called the Grand Oak, sometimes the Elder Tree," it replies.

Lanaya stares up at it, jaw slack, before she shakes her head. "Mythal protect us," she says, frowning. "Are you a demon? A spirit? Why have you not attacked us as the others have?"

"Ah, thou speakest of the others, how filled they are with hate? I apologize on their behalf; they cannot control their fate."

Maroth swallows, paling as he stares up at the great tree. "Right, it rhymes then? What the frig is up with a rhyming tree? Blasted forest, full of weird shite. Right then, if you can speak, tell us where the werewolves hide."

He listens as the Elder Tree continues to speak, each sentence rhyming with the last. He asks for help in return, refusing to answer any questions unless they retrieve an acorn. Maroth shakes his head in disbelief, the surreal notion of a talking tree asking for anything still making his head spin. "A bloody acorn? Yer joking, yeah?" Maroth sighs. "Right. I'm guessing I can't just pick up any acorn off the ground, then, yeah?"

"It must be the acorn of my own seed, the one stolen by a thief from me. If you complete this task, this deed, then thankful I shall be."

Panowen scoffs, brows knitted tight with anger. "I say we kill this beast and take from it what we need."

The ground begins to vibrate with anger as Athras speaks. "Nay, stay your dagger, da'len. We need not anger the spirit when it has caused us no harm."

The forest floor stops shaking, the rage of the Elder Oak quieted with Athras' words. Maroth nods slowly. "Right. Can this shite get any weirder today? Tainted mirrors, mad trees that attack quicker than shite, and now a poet tree that wants we fetch an acorn, yeah? Frig. Alright, whatever you are, we'll get yer acorn then."

Lanaya offers him a small smile. "I agree, it would be wise not to anger the Grand Oak."

The Grand Oak bows, sort of, shaking it's leaves at them.  "Preform the boon that I ask, and I shall preform thou's task."

Maroth grunts, turning away. "Right then, how hard can it be to find a single friggin' acorn in the middle of a forest?"

Lanaya chuckles. "It's good you've retained your sense of humour, my friend," she replies. "But if someone stole it, he cannot be too hard to find." She pauses for a moment, one brow raised. "I hope," she adds, a wry smile twisting her full lips.

Despite their plan to help the talking tree, the forest doesn't ease up it's assault. More sylvans attack, roots rising from the ground to twist around their ankles, forming a cage that holds them frozen. But Lanaya's magic is strong, and despite the wounds that cover his body, their able to continue on. "Thank Andraste for your healing spell, Lanaya," Maroth says, smiling his gratitude at her.

She opens her mouth to reply but freezes instead, head cocked to the side. "I feel strange magic up ahead. It's not Dalish, and it feels powerful, corrupted." She shivers slightly and Panowen places a hand on her shoulder.

"Whatever it is, we shall defeat it, lethallan," Panowen says, voice firm.

Athras sighs. "You're so eager to enter battle, da'len. I say we err on the side of caution. Perhaps the one who bares this magic knows of the acorn thief?"

"Or they  _are_  the acorn thief," Maroth mutters, cracking his neck and squaring his shoulders. "Come on, then. Let's see what weird shite this one has to offer."

Lanaya chuckles again. "Ah,  perhaps when this is over, you could join our clan, my friend? Your sense of humour would be greatly welcomed."

He raises a brow at her as they walk toward a hollowed out tree stump. "Yeah? You accept flat ears, do ya?"

"I was not originally from Zathrian's clan, so the answer is yes," she replies with a wink. "And you can teach us of the ways of our city brethren, perhaps we have much to learn from each other? It seems strange to me, to imagine our people crushed together among so many buildings and shemlen."

Maroth peers into the stump, nodding his head agreeably before a loud cracking noise splinters the air.

"What's this? Who are you? Leave an old man's home alone!"

Maroth blinks at the man suddenly standing before him in tattered robes. "Where in the bloody void did you come from?" he asks, fear making sweat roll down his neck. 

Lanaya steps forward. "Be wary, friend. He holds dark magic in his heart."

The mage's eyes are wild as he swings his arms at nothing in  particular. "Questions, questions, always questions. They say it was questions that drove me mad; will it do the same for you?"

"Yer a few eggs short of a dozen, right? Bloody void." Maroth sighs as he begins to regret his life choices. Perhaps wandering the forest on a quest to slay a werewolf, or whatever the void Witherfang happens to be, isn't his smartest plan. "Andraste guide me," he mutters.

Athras steps forward, a hesitant smile crinkling his eyes. "Mythal's blessing, stranger. Might we sit by your fire, perhaps engage in conversation for a moment? We've been travelling all night, and could use a rest for a moment."

"Rest? To lean or lay, set or stand? Such strange speech, but I have a game I wish to play, yes I do," the mad man replies, a strange giggle bubbling from his lips at the end.

Maroth takes a step back, the hairs on the back of his neck on edge. "Right then. A game, you say? Hopefully it's not a deadly game, yeah?"

The mage stomps his foot, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. "No, no, no! A question for a question, an answer for an answer! That's how you play the game!"

Panowen opens her mouth, but Lanaya cuts her off. "So, you want us to answer a question?

The man grins, eyes sparkling dangerously. "Wouldn't I have to ask a question first?"

Panowen scoffs, throwing her hands into the air. "Is that not a question itself, old man?"

"Would you know a question if it were asked?"

Maroth feels his head spinning with frustration. "You've got to be kidding me," he grumbles.

"No! That is not a question! You must play by the rules!" The old man jumps around from foot to foot, arms waving through the air.

"Tread carefully, friend," Lanaya cautions.

"Oh, by the Maker's nutsack. Fine, do you want to ask a bloody question, then?" Maroth crosses his arms, fed up with talking trees and mad old hermits. "Friggin' hate nature," he adds under his breath.

"I think it is your turn to ask, is it not?"

Maroth stares at the man for a moment, mind caught in a whirl. He just needs to get the damnable acorn, preferably without engaging in more battle. Fighting deranged trees is bad enough, adding a blood mage to the mix isn't on his list of things to do tonight. He wracks his brain for a moment, trying to figure out how in the void to get the acorn, if the man even has it, when an idea hits him. "Do you have anythin' worth tradin' fer?" he asks, winking at Lanaya.

The Dalish First grins back, nodding appreciatively. "Smart question," she whispers to him.

The old man waves his arms about, spinning in a circle before answering. "Let's see.... I have an acorn, a helmet I found, and a book I finished reading ages ago. Provided you have something interesting in return?"

Maroth chuckles. Finally, something goes right. "I want to trade for the acorn, right?"

"And what do you have in return?"

Shite. Maroth glances over at Lanaya, who shrugs her thin shoulders at him. Athras steps forward, a solemn look on his face. He takes a wooden pendant from his pocket, two circling hawks carved into the surface. "This was made by our clan's craftsman. It isn't much, but it's all I have to offer," the elder elf says, handing the amulet to the hermit.

"An amulet, you say? Yes, yes I will take it! Give it here!" The crazed man snatches the amulet from Athras, an insane smile twisting his lips. He turns it over in his hand before biting into it. "Not very tasty, is it?" He lets out a mad laugh before reaching into his pocket, taking out a small acorn. "Here then, take it and be gone!" The mad man tosses the acorn toward them, which Maroth catches deftly. 

Maroth raises an eyebrow at Athras. "Thanks," he mumbles. "Right then, let's go talk to the friggin' tree again, yeah?"

 

~*~*~

 

Shock holds Melina in place as she stares up at the large, purple ogre. It's hand slowly reaches for her, saliva dripping from its fangs. She lets out a frightened scream as the Grey Warden, Cousland, knocks her to the side. The beast grabs him instead, slamming him over and over onto the floor before tossing him aside.

"No!" Melina cries out, casting a paralyze glyph a moment too late. "Maker, give me strength," she whispers, pelting it with ice as the other Grey Wardens and Jowan attack it from the opposite side. She casts spell after spell, fueling her mana with lyrium until she sees the Warden called Alistair climb up the beast using his sword and a dagger. He stabs it in the heart and it falls to the ground, shaking the entire room as it lands.

Melina rushes over to Warden Cousland, tears dripping down her chin. "Maker forgive me," she prays, trying to heal his broken body. But it's no use; blood trickles from his mouth as he struggles to breathe past the pain. 

His lips waver as he smiles up at her. "Do not cry for me, Mi'lady. I go eagerly to the Maker's side in the hopes I will see my family again." His eyelids flutter close as she bows her head.

A hand is on her shoulder, and she looks up to meet Warden Daveth's eyes. "Hey there, sweetheart, don't be sad. We've still got work to do, right?" His eyes hold sorrow that his words don't reveal. "Come one, we've surely missed the signal by now."

She swallows, grabbing his hand as he lifts her to her feet. With a heavy heart, Melina watches Alistair light the beacon, sweat rolling down his face. 

Fear makes her heart skip a beat as the door slams open. She turns quickly, feet slipping on the blood soaked floor. An arrow pierces her heart and she can feel her life slipping away as her head hits the ground with a resounding crack. "Maker, take me to your side," she whispers softly, darkness growing strong around her.

 As the shadows grow darker, and her life ebbs away, she swears she can see a strange shape forming above her. Her final thoughts contain a question;  _is that a dragon?_

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The theme behind this, and really all my stories, is that the bards who sing the tale of the heroes have gotten it all wrong. The order in which events happen, who was there, all of it. My stories are the "true" events that took place, before the tales were told time beyond counting and lost to exaggerations and retellings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork placed in this chapter is as follows:
> 
> 1\. Maroth Tabris as done by: http://alliejacques.deviantart.com/  
> 2\. Jalyn Surana as done by: http://rustywick.tumblr.com/  
> 3\. Melina Amell as done by: Mosomacilany.deviantart.com 
> 
> These three artists were all wonderful, and I sincerely recommened checking them out along with the cover artist, milkytwilight.deviantart.com

Melina can hear a fire crackling, the sound heart wrenching in its familiarity. Her eyes are leaden, painful and heavy, as she lies perfectly still. She can feel a scratchy wool blanket cover her body, rough against her bare skin. _Bare skin?_ She's naked, down to nothing but her breast band and panties. She thanks the Maker at least those items remain. She struggles to remember what happened, some clue that might point to where she's at, but the last thing she can recall is a darkspawn arrow piercing her heart. 

A soft shuffling sound alerts her that she isn't alone, but she keeps her eyes closed tight. She focuses instead on the smells around her. Sweet smoke wafts throughout the room, a scent she places as a magical incense, meant to calm and relax the mind before meditation. It's sweet with a hint of bitterness behind it, made of berries found in the Korcari Wilds. She breathes it in, a small smile in her heart. Behind the incense though is a darker scent, of dust and old bones, laced behind the sweeter smell. She recognizes the smell of old bones from the Tower of Ishal, where they had found a few skeletons left to rot over the ages. Her heart skips a beat as fear pulses through her. _Why is that smell here? Is she in danger?_ A thousand thoughts swirl through her mind as she listens to the soft scuffling of feet against a wooden floor.

A heavy bulk is situated at her feet, sharing the bed with her, but she can't tell what it is. She prays it isn't anything dangerous.

"You are awake, are you not? Come then, my mother wishes to see you," a voice says, haughty and commanding with a strange accent she can't quite place.

Melina slowly opens her eyes, blinking against the bright sunlight pouring in through an open window. Her eyes light up as she sees the Warden Cousland's dog laying on the end of her bed. The great beast, what the Warden had called a mabari warhound, lumbers to his feet and walks over to her, nudging her hand with his head. Melina scratches him behind the ears, a smile curving her lips, as she looks around, taking in the wooden shelves covered in tattered books and human skulls. She swallows, pulse in her throat, before looking at the woman who has spoken. She lets down her shields, searching for an emotion, but is hit with a cold wall of iron will. "Pa-Pardon me, Mi'lady, but who are you?" 

The woman peers down her nose at her, dark brown hair twisted in a messy knot at the back her head. Her yellow eyes are piercing and sit etched in a elegantly curved face. Her robes are tattered and covered in inky black feathers, adding to the exotic beauty the woman possesses. "You may call me Morrigan, if you must," she replies, tone clipped as she stirs a large cauldron over the fire. "Such manners you have, considering I can smell your fear from across the room."

Melina's stomach growls in hunger as the smell of stew reaches her nose. "I'm sorry, Mi'lady Morrigan," she replies, earning a scoff from the girl.

"Just Morrigan, if you please," Morrigan replies. She ladles some of the stew into a small wooden bowl. "You are hungry, are you not? Here, eat before you go. My mother is outside and she wishes to see you."

Melina takes the bowl of stew, surprised at the burst of flavours across her tongue. The stew back in Kinloch Hold is never this tasty. "Thank you," she whispers. She finishes the bowl quickly, saving half for the dog. She purses her lips a moment, trying to remember the beasty's name. "Right, he called you Dane, didn't he? Come here, Dane, are you hungry, too?" The dog barks noisily, causing Morrigan to scowl as it wolfs down the remaining stew. "I'm sorry to bother you, Morrigan, but can you tell me what happened? I- I thought I was dead," Melina asks, confusion still a thick fog in her brain.

Morrigan nods in her direction, lip curled as she watches the dog slobber on the blanket. "You were gravelly injured, but my mother has healed your wounds and rescued you from the tower. The man who was to respond to the Warden's signal... quit the field. It was a massacre."

Melina's eyes widen in shock. "Massacre? Everyone is dead?" Images of Niall, Evelina, and Wynne flash through her mind, quickly followed by the faces of the templars who had escorted them. Cold tears spill from her eyes and she buries her head in her hands. "Maker, it can't be," she whispers, pain constricting her heart.

Morrigan sighs heavily. "There were some survivors, if that pleases you. They are outside, with my mother. Go then, and see them. Perhaps that will ease your ridiculous crying."

Melina's head shoots up at her harsh words, brow furrowed in anger. "My  _friends_ were in that battle! It's not ridiculous to mourn their loss!" She glares at the other mage, anger running hot through her veins. "How can you be so callous?" 

"Because there is a time and a place for mourning. 'Tis not the time now to do so. You must gather your senses and be strong, or you _will_ fail," Morrigan replies, rolling her eyes as she speaks.

Dane growls low in his throat beside her, clearly unhappy with the conversation. She places a hand on his head, sending calming magic his way. "I will not fail," she replies, swinging her feet off the edge of the bed. "Where are my clothes?"

"They were ruined in the battle. Here, this will do," Morrigan replies, throwing cloth that reeks of swamp water her way. 

Melina holds the clothing up in horror. "This will barely cover me," she whispers, cheeks burning in embarrassment. 

"It has strong enchantments, and it will be all the armour you need," Morrigan replies with a shrug of her thin shoulders. "Now hurry, lest you make your companions wait any longer."

The yellow and green cloth fits snugly over her curves, stretching tight over stomach. Her breasts are the only parts of her that fit well, being smaller than the rest of her considerable curves. She frowns as she looks down at herself, grateful that at least the stockings seem to cover her thighs and calves. "Maker preserve me," she says, crossing her heart.

She opens the door and the thick smell of musty swamp hits her in the face, sharp and strong to her nose. Mosquitoes buzz around her face, eager for her blood. She swats at them, brow knitted together in a small frown.

"You- You're alive," Alistair whispers, face slack with astonishment.

Daveth winks over at her, a ready grin in place. "Aye, good to see such a pretty lass survived this mess, right?"

She curtsies toward them, glad to see at least some of the Wardens alive. She glances around, and frowns harder when she sees Jowan standing next to an elder woman with long, white hair. Her eyes are bright yellow, and something tugs at Melina's memory, struggling to break through. She shakes her head, curls bouncing, and curtsies toward the old woman. "I hear from your daughter we have you to thank for saving our lives. Maker's blessing to you, Milady, and my deepest thanks."

The old woman laughs, a hint of madness behind the sound. "Ah, such manners. Call me Flemeth, child, most do these days."

Daveth turns slowly, eyes opened wide with fear that rolls off him in thick waves. "Flemeth? As in, the Witch of the Wilds? You're going to eat us, aren't you?"

Alistair nudges him with his shoulder. "Hush, Daveth. Are you trying to anger her? She did save our lives."

Flemeth scowls at the pair. "I am also right here, and am not so old I cannot hear you, boy." There's a deep growl to the old woman's voice, and Melina can feel dark magic radiating off her.

"Please, ma'am, I'm sure they meant no harm," Melina says, trying to assure the elder mage before something terrible happens. 

Flemeth turns her bright yellow eyes back toward Melina. "Now there's a good girl, who knows how to properly give thanks when it is due. Oh don't mind me, you four should talk amongst yourselves. You have a battle to plan, do you not?"

Melina carefully brings down her shields, throwing out her senses like tiny tendrils wafting toward the two Wardens and Jowan, hoping to gain some clarity. Her whole world feels flipped upside down. Just the other day, she had been home inside Kinloch Hold. Everything was in order, everything had its place. There was a daily routine she finds comforting, and now it's all been ripped away. This was just supposed to be a brief moment where she came outside, healed the wounded soldiers, and went back home again. 

And now everyone is dead. Pain, like a thousand sharp needles pricking her heart, shudders through her body. _Please, Maker, please let my friends be alright,_ she prays silently, barely listening as Daveth and Alistair talk about how hopeless everything looks. Alistair throws his hands up in frustration, and the emotion feels hot against her skin.

"No Grey Warden has ever defeated a Blight without the armies of a half dozen nations at his back. We couldn't even find the treaties before your Joining, what in the Maker's name are we supposed to do?" Alistair asks, voice raising in a fevered pitch as he runs his hands through his short blonde hair.

Daveth frowns, stroking his chin in thought. "Brycy's refusal to venture further into the Wilds was inconvenient, but I think he figured someone else would come later."

Alistair cuts him a glare, eyes narrowed. "Well now there is no later," he says with a soft growl.

"Isn't _now_ later?" Daveth quips back, smirking at his fellow Warden. "Why can't we search now?"

Jowan clears his throat, wringing his hands as he steps forward and Melina can feel the nervous tension rolling off him in lukewarm waves. "Uh, I know my opinion probably isn't wanted but... You can't search the Wilds now; they've been overrun with darkspawn."

"Our mage friend here is right, Daveth." Alistair sighs again, looking up toward the sky. "I'm so sorry, Duncan" he whispers, voice full of pain and grief.

Flemeth starts to cackle, the sound echoing strangely in the tiny clearing. "Treaties? I have them, and have kept them safe for just this moment."

Alistair frowns, regarding her carefully as his hand moves to his sword at his side. "Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?" His tone is laden with incredulity as he scoffs lightly. 

The mad witch's lips twist down, yellow eyes gleaming. " _You_ are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one's eyes tight or open one's eyes wide- either way, one's a fool." She chuckles again, seemingly amused at something.

"Right," Alistair replies, drawing out the word slowly and taking a few steps back. "Well, you have the treaties, then? That's, uh, a good thing."

Melina gathers her courage again, unsure she's even wanted here right now. "Thank you again," she says, offering the crazed woman a small curtsy. "You've been very helpful and kind."

A tinkling laughter sounds from behind her, and she spins around- almost losing her balance. Morrigan's arm shoots out, steadying her as she continues to laugh. "Kind? My mother has been called many things, 'tis true, but "kind" is not amongst them."

Flemeth smirks. "This is the thanks I get for feeding you and putting up with you for this long? Bah. May your child one day treat you the same."

"Feed me, she says. Without me, I swear she shall be caked in dirt and eating tree bark inside of a month!" Morrigan's voice holds a hint of amusement to it, full lips turning into a small smile as she talks with her mother.

The interaction baffles Melina as she stands there, watching them. Her memories of her own mother are faint and mostly forgotten, faded around the edges and dulled with time and distance. She remembers she had hair much the same as Melina does now, and a bright smile whenever there were visitors. She was polite, and kind, Melina believes this with all her heart. Her father is a blank spot in her head, a shadowy figure she can't bring to mind. She can't remember his smile or the colour of his eyes, the way he laughed or spoke. Guilt tears at her for not remembering more, so she holds on to what she has with a vice-like grip. But Morrigan and Flemeth... the way they talk to each other seems strange to Melina, and not at all like a mother and daughter. 

She continues to listen to the chatter as the Wardens decide their plans, discussing battle tactics and allies. She exchanges a glance with Jowan, and she can tell even without feeling it that he is as worried as she is about their future. 

"Alight, then it's decided! We're off to save Ferelden," Daveth exclaims, clapping his hands together. "Should be easy, right?"

 

Alistair rolls his eyes. "Right. Easy. Well, thank you both for rescuing us. I suppose we should be on our way."

"Wait, Ser Alistair!" Melina steps forward, biting her lip.

He flinches at the title, shaking his head. "Just Alistair, please, Mi'lady."

"Oh, of course. Alistair, might I join you once again? I- have nowhere else to go, and I'd like to help, if I can."

Alistair and Daveth exchange a glance as Melina stands perfectly still, heart in her throat. She feels almost dizzy with anticipation, praying to the Maker they'll take her with. She doesn't want to be alone.

"We could use all the help we can get," Daveth mutters, scrunching up his face as he sighs. "But you'll need to be.... better at battle if you're to come along, sweetheart."

Her cheeks turn bright red at his words as she remembers Warden Cousland dying to save her. "I will, I promise," she replies, head bowed and curls falling forward to hide her face and shame.

Alistair places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll do fine. You've never been out of the circle, have you?" he asks, and she looks up to meet his eyes. 

Slowly she shakes her head, holding back the tears that threaten to spill. "No, Ser," she whispers. He offers her a small smile, patting her on the head. 

"Alright, let's go." He turns to Jowan, smile still in place. "Are you ready, as well?" 

Melina scowls, but remains quiet. She knows in her heart that they can't leave Jowan behind, and she sends out a silent prayer that he truly has renounced the wicked ways of blood magic. Jowan just nods, eyes wide with shock, rubbing a hand through his thick brown hair.

Flemeth lets out a low chuckle and the sound sends shivers down Melina's spine. "I have but one more thing to offer you, Grey Wardens," she whispers, gesturing toward her daughter.

Morrigan's eyes widen. "Mother, this is not how I wanted this," she insists, hands trembling slightly.

Melina watches as the two banter back and forth, Flemeth insisting that the Grey Wardens need her or else they will fall. In the end, Morrigan agrees, despite Alistair's protests against her joining. In the end, they all go, except for Flemeth. Melina stays toward the back of their small group as they head toward a village that Morrigan had called "Lothering". Dane walks closely by her side, his presence bringing her a small measure of comfort. Daveth slows his speed until he matches her pace. He bumps her shoulder with his, a ready grin on his face. He doesn't say anything, just walks beside her as they make their way through the Wilds. He glances over at the dog, one eyebrow raised, before shaking his head, still smiling.

It isn't long before a small group of darkspawn attack, their blind hatred thick and hot in the air. Melina furrows her brow as she squares her shoulders. This is her chance to prove she won't falter, that she isn't more of a liability than a help. She casts a glyph of repulsion on the ground which knocks two of the larger monster back. Alistair charges them, slamming his shield into the tallest one. Daveth stays by her side, switching his wickedly curved daggers for a bow and arrow as he begins firing into a squat beast before it can stab Morrigan. Morrigan herself transforms into a large spider, and Melina blanches at the sight.  She swallows, trying to ignore the forbidden magic taking place as Morrigan-spider prances the darkspawn in front of her. Melina casts another glyph, this one of paralysis, and holds  the mage-like darkspawn in it's place while Jowan peppers it with ice pellets. 

Dane howls as he, too, charges into battle. His teeth tear into the darkspawn's flesh, splatter blood across his brown muzzle. He lets out a small yip as a dagger pierces his side, but it doesn't stop the dog from ripping out the darkspawn's throat, howling in victory when hes done.

Melina stumbles toward the dog, all the monsters finally slain, and her body feels weak with sadness. The wound on Dane's body is deep as she wraps her arms around his neck, breathing in the musky scent of hound. "Don't worry, beasty, I can heal you," she whispers into his fur.

She closes her eyes, leaning back on her heels. She draws up a bit of mana from the fade, a cool tendril of magic, listening for a fade spirit. She can hear the tinkling of bells and smiles, gently coaxing the spirit closer, asking for its help rather than forcing it against its will. Gradually it lends her its strength, adding to the tendril of mana and growing the power she holds. She gathers all that energy up, holding it in her mind, and slowly pushes it into the mabari. She focuses her mind on the images of knitting the skin back together, healing the broken bones, and forcing the veins to meld back together until the beast is whole again.

When Melina opens her eyes again, the mabari greets her by licking her face, thick globs of slobber on his tongue. She falls over, landing on her butt, and a giggle bursts forth from her lips with joy. "You're welcome, Ser Dane," she says, scratching the dog behind his ears.

Alistair's lips are parted as he watches her. "Maker's Breath, but you truly are a Spirit Healer," he replies, a strange lilt to his voice. "We are perhaps more lucky than I first thought to have you along, Mi'lady."

Daveth laughs, the sound loud and boisterous as he hands his fellow Warden a small bit of cloth. "Here, to wipe the blood, and drool, from your face lover boy." He shakes his head, glancing over at Morrigan, who is still in spider form, before winking back at Melina. "I think that hound has bonded with you, sweetheart. Lucky girl, you are."

Melina cocks her head, confused. "Bonded?"

"Mmmhmm. That's what Mabari's do. My da always said they were clever enough to know how to talk, but wise enough to know not to. They're a picky breed, too, and they pick their masters from the best. That's a noble hound, it is."

Melina's eyes widen as she looks to Jowan. He offers her a small smile of encouragement before she looks away. "Thank you, Ser Dane," she whispers to the dog, burying her face in its short, musky fur once more.

 

~*~*~

 

Ser Cullen Rutherford feels a cold chill run down his spine. He casts his eyes frantically around the small room, where Senior Enchanters Wynne and Uldred aredescribing the battle at Ostagar, wounds still bleeding.

"It was terrible! All those soldiers, all of our mages… overwhelmed," Enchanter Wynne whispers, grey hair tumbling loose around her face.

_What about Mellie?_ Cullen wonders, fear making his back rigid and sweat trickle down his forehead.

Uldred shakes his head. "It was the King's fault! He was foolish. Teyrn Loghain saved who he could," he argues, his bald head gleaming in the candle light.

There is something… wrong in the way Uldred's eyes glow. _Is it a trick of the light?_ Cullen can't tell through the grief tearing at his heart. "Were there no other survivors?" he asks, trying not to reveal any emotion behind the question.

Wynne shakes her head slowly. "None that I saw, Ser Cullen," she answers gently, before turning on Uldred, her eyes sharp. "I was there, Uldred! I saw how Loghain turned his back on Cailan's troops even before they were overwhelmed." Her voice is calm and steady, like always, and once again it reminds Cullen of his grandmother.

Cullen feels his heart drop at her words. _No other survivors._ That means... Mellie. Sweet Mellie, with her hopeful innocence and devout faith. He closes his eyes, picturing her kneeling before the altar to pray. Her golden brown eyes set deep in her rounded face, a gentle smile on her lips as she whispers words of reverence to Andraste and their Maker. _She's dead._ He barely believes it, doesn't _want_ to believe it, but Wynne wouldn't lie.

As he opens his eyes he feels a dark shift in the air, like it has suddenly turned a few degrees colder. He looks at Uldred, shock worming its way through him as blood drips from the man's wrist. "We will revolt! We will have infinite power and we will no longer bow to our Templar jailers! Loghain will see us free!" the mage cries out.

Cullen is hit with such a force of power it knocks him back, his head cracking against the stone floor. As the darkness envelops him, his thoughts drift to Mellie. He wonders if he dies here, will he see Mellie wandering the Fade? Or will she have been risen to the Maker's side for her devout faith? Surely, the Maker will have room for him, too.

 

 ~*~*~

 

The forest parts easily for Maroth and the Dalish elves now, the magic from the Elder Tree's branch helping them to glide through the trees like water. Even the wild sylvans leave them be, so long as they don't venture too close. Maroth's pulse is fluttering like mad as he grips his weapon, the rough wood bringing him comfort as they go. A thick fog has settled on the forest floor, clinging to their ankles like cobwebs in the early morning light. Exhaustion claws at his mind, regret heavy in his heart. He longs to stop, to rest, after having fought and battled all night. But to stop here, so close to the werewolf lair, would be suicide. 

He throws out his arm, stopping Lanaya in her tracks. A single werewolf stands in front of them, dry blood coating its fur. Its body is hunched in on itself, and tears are leaking from its beady eyes. "You.... errgh.. must turn back, my love," it says, a strange growl laced in its tone.

Maroth's eyebrows fly up as he listens. "You... speak? Of course you speak. If the bloody trees can speak, why the frig not."

Athras steps forward, brow puckered and face pinched in sorrow. "Danyla? Ma vhenan?"  

Maroth's eyes widen at the words, heart skipping a beat. "Danyla? Isn't that your mate?"

The older elf ignores him, stepping closer to the were. "Ma vhenan, what have they done to you?" His voice is filled with sorrow as he collapses to his knees, hands outstretched. tears fall from his eyes as his whole body trembles.

"Shite," Maroth whispers. "Bloody friggin' shite."

The were called Danyla scuttles back, shaking her mangy head. "No! You... ergh... mustn't. The weres... ergh.. aren't what they seem. Please, my love, turn back. You must... turn back. Take the clan... errrgh Oh, it burns! Mythal, it burns! Please, kill me now! I can't... errrgh.... the pain!"

Athras shakes his head, eyes wild. "No, Danyla, we can help you. Please, love, let us help you," he begs, scooting closer.

An arrow buzzes by Maroth's ear, piercing Danyla's heart. As the beast falls to the ground, she whispers something Maroth doesn't understand. "Ar lath ma, ma vhenan."

Panowen steps forward, bow in hand, as Athras howls his grief to the sky. "Ir abelas, lathallin," she says, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He shrugs her off, getting to his feet with fury in his eyes. "You murdered her," he says with a growl, clutching his own bow tight in his hand. "Do not call me lathallin today."

"The weres killed her long before my arrow touched her, Athras. She was a beast," she retorts, equally as angry.

"She was not a beast! She was my heart," he replies, collapsing to his knees once more and crawling over to her body. "Ma vhenan, ma vhenan," he sobs brokenly, clutching her bloodstained body to his chest. "Ir abelas, ma vhenan. I could not save you."

Maroth kneels down next to him, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "Come, my friend. If we stay too long, we're sittin' targets, waitin' for them weres to pick us off. Can you stand?"

Athras nods, grabbing a light purple scarf from the corpse of his dead wife. He ties it around his wrist, pressing a soft kiss against the fabric. "Fear not, friend Tabris, I will not falter in our goal. I fight now for Danyla, my bond mate. May the Dread Wolf take them all," he replies, clenching his fists.

Maroth nods, clutching the man's shoulder. "Good. Use that anger," he replies, remembering the rage he had felt when his own wife was slain. He spits on the ground, green eyes flashing. "Lets go."

Lanaya casts a small spell, sending a wave of calming energy over them all. "Lest our heads become too hot," she says, offering Maroth the barest hint of a smile.

They walk in silence, Athras staying as far from Panowen as he can. His anger keeps his body tense, and Maroth hopes he doesn't turn on his clanmate. He glances around at the trees, surprised to notice that not even the birds are chirping here. No squirrels run through the treetops, and no creatures scuttle along the forest floor. It's as if they've all fled far from the heart of the forest in fear of what lies within. Or for fear of being turned into supper, perhaps.

He pauses as he looks at the crumbling ruins of some ancient place, vines twisting around toppled towers as if they had pulled them to the ground themselves. The places reeks of rotting corpses and dust, the scent clinging to his nostrils as he gags. Lanaya hands him a bit of cloth, pointing to his face. He ties it around, helping to block out the worst of the smell though it still lingers in the air like a warning of death.

Maroth lurks on the edge of the doorway leading down, hand hovering in front of him. A roaring growl echos behind him and he spins around on his feet, losing his balance. A great werewolf, about a foot taller than the others, stands behind them; flanked by four other weres. Saliva drips from their mouths as they howl to the sky, the morning sun cresting over the treetops and lighting against their bloodstained fur. 

He hears the soft stretching of a bow string. Glancing to his left, he sees Panowen with an arrow knocked and ready, sweat rolling down her forehead. Her face is pinched in fear but her hands are stead as she takes aim. "Andruil, guide my arrow," she whispers.

"The forest has not been vigilante, brothers and sisters. Errrrgh, we will drive these  _elves_ out of our lair and then we will attack the rest of the Dalish. We will have our revenge!" The wolf howls, claws lashing at the air.

Maroth places a hand on Panowen's arm, holding her from shooting. "Revenge? Ya bloody crazy or somethin'? You attacked them," Maroth says, curiosity gnawing at him.

The were growls again, stepping closer, body bent low and prepared to lunge. "You know nothing, errrrgh, elf. The Dalish attacked us long ago," he replies.

"Lies! Emma shem'nan!" Panowen lets an arrow fly, soaring through the air and piercing the wolves shoulder. 

The beast howls its rage and agony, the sound echoing against the trees, before it leaps into battle. Claws rip into Maroth's side, tearing at his flesh as his blood stains the grass. A great burning flows through his body, but he pushes past it, using his spear to ward off more blows. He twists on his feet, turning his body to avoid the werewolf's claws, and lunges his upper torso toward his enemy. The tip of the spear pierces flesh when a great white wolf pounces on him, knocking him to the ground with an angry growl. The small wolf has strange green vines wrapping around its paw, but otherwise looks like a normal wolf. It barks and snaps its jaw at Maroth's face before leading the wolves in a retreat further into the ruins.

"Andraste's ass, I thought we was done for there," he whispers, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Pain, like fire in his blood, spreads through his body and he doubles over as a cry rips itself from his lips. "Maker, w'at's happenin'?"

Lanaya rests a hand on his shoulder, sending waves of magic through him, but it doesn't ease the rapid burning. "Friggin' void, it feels like I'm on fire," he says, clutching his hair in his hands.

"You have the curse in you, Tabris. If we're to keep you from turning, we have to hurry. Andruil guide our steps," Lanaya replies, cupping his cheek in her hand. "can you walk?"

He flinches as he looks into her eyes, her face so similar to Nesiara that it sends a pain even sharper than the curse through his heart. "Yeah, I can walk," he grumbles, slowly getting to his feet. 

The pain doesn't ease up, despite Lanaya's magic, as he continues toward the ruin. The stairs leading down into the depths of it are dark and covered with rotting vines that smell of death and time. Athras carries a torch, lighting the way with flickering flames that does little to provide solid light. The entire place has a strange feel to it, a dark tone to the air that sends a shiver down Maroth's spine.

Werewolves attack at every corner, tearing into the small group of elves with a deep fury, matched only by the fury of the elves who have lost those they love. Panowen and Athras both use their daggers instead of their bows, their faces twisted with anger as they spill the blood of the weres. Maroth's pain slows him, making him hesitate as he drives his spear into the heart of each twisted beast. Their howls call to him, and he finds himself wanting to answer that howl, to lift his face and cry out in unison with them. He clenches his fist, struggling not to give into the curse that burns through him. Looking down at his hands, he can see the hair thickening, turning a dark grey, and becoming coarse in texture as his body shifts. Bones shift and pop beneath his arms, and he pulls down his sleeves to hide the slow change. "Maker, please, protect me," he whispers, crossing his heart with a hairy hand.

Sweat drips from his face as he hears a strange growl, deep and low that vibrates across the ground. Pebbles and debris shake beneath his feet as he exchanges a worried glance with Lanaya. "W'at in the void is that?" he asks, fear making shock waves through his body.

Lanaya shrugs her shoulders, gripping her staff so tight her knuckles are white against the grey-blue bark. He steps in front of her, walking toward the source of the sound. All the other tunnels have been explored, and there's no way down to where the werewolves live, so this is their only chance. There has to be a way down, somewhere.

"Maker's hairy nutsack, w'at in the void...." Maroth crosses his heart, fear making his body tremble as he watches a small dragon land in front of them. She spreads her great, purple wings and roars. The sound sends a cold chill down his spine.

Lanaya brings up her magic, a warm energizing wind that blows through his mind. He squares his shoulders, pain still strong in his veins, and lets out a fierce battle cry as he charges the beast.

"Andruil, guide my arrows," Athras shouts, pelting the dragon with arrows lit aflame by Lanaya's magic.

A claw smacks into Maroth, digging deep gashes into his chest that burn worse than the curse. Blood pours from the wounds as dizziness overwhelms him. He fights past it, picturing his daughter's sweet face in his mind, and gets back up. He takes his spear, wood starting to crack and splinter from repeated blows, and throws it at the dragon's throat. She cries out in pain, clawing at her own throat to try and pull out the weapon but dragon's claws aren't meant for such delicate work. Grabbing a dagger from his leg, he rushes the beast while she's distracted, tearing a great gash across her hind leg. He digs in deep, using it as leverage to climb her flank, sweat and blood pouring off his body.

The dragon whips its body around and Maroth nearly flies off, grabbing a hold of her scales and his dagger, praying to the Maker all the while. "Lanaya, distract the beast," he calls out and is grateful when he smells the stench of burning meat as Lanaya throws a fireball at its face. He climbs up the body of the dragon, using his daggers to pierce the flesh as he goes, nearly falling more than once. Soon he reaches the thick meaty part that leads up to her neck, hoping to slit the dragon's throat and finish the battle. She lets out a broken scream, somehow still able to make noise with the spear in her neck, and flaps her wings, moving up and up toward the ceiling. 

"Shite," Maroth whispers as he starts to slip, using his daggers to slow his decent. Blood from the dragon's body sprays his face as he slides down her body, until there is no body left to fall down. 

He looks down as he falls, the stone floor rushing toward him. His heart in his throat as he closes his eyes tight, fear a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. Suddenly, he hits a heavy force, bones cracking but not breaking. Maroth swallows before opening his eyes, one at a time, and is surprised to see the stone floor still a few feet away as he hovers in midair.

"Wat the friggin' shite?" His eyes are wild as he looks around, trying to figure out how in the void he's learned to fly.

Lanaya breaths a sigh of relief. "My magic holds you there, thank the Gods. Here, I'm going to let you down know, carefully."

Maroth holds his breath until his feet touch solid ground again. He collapses to his knees and kisses the floor, wincing in pain as he does. "Oh, sweet Andraste's tits, I never want to do that again," he says with passion. "Thank you, Lanaya."

A calm feeling settles into the back of his brain, wounds slowly healing. Blood still drips from his body, but he's at least partially healed. Lanaya frowns, inspecting the wounds on his chest. She clucks her tongue, clearly annoyed. "If only I had the power of a Spirit Healer, I could heal you fully," she whispers, her fingers soft against the jagged edges of his wound.

Maroth grabs her hand and kisses her knuckles, a small smirk playing with the edges of his lips. "Lanaya, ya saved my life. Thank you," he says, meeting her eyes.

A blush covers her cheeks and she hurriedly pulls away, straightening her robes as she goes to check on Athras and Panowen. He chuckles, wincing at the pain in his ribs as he gets to his feet. The dragon has flown away, out a small gab that leads to the forest, and with it the beast has taken his spear and both his daggers. Shite. 

He limps over to the group, a grin in place. "So, it seems the friggin' dragon has taken off with my weapons," he says sheepishly.

Panowen frowns, handing over her daggers. "It was foolish to climb the beast so," she admonishes, a angry scowl etched on her face. 

Maroth shrugs, nodding. "Probably. Got the beast to leave without killin' us, right? Right. So, looks like we found our entrance to the werewolf lair," he replies, pointing toward the back of the room.

 

~*~*~

 

Pain shocks through Cullen's body, making him double over with pain. He clenches his jaw to avoid screaming out, even as the pain sends sharp needles through his head. He can taste the blood magic in the air as his captors laugh with maniacal glee.

"Ser Cullen, shhhh, it's okay now," a soft voice whispers.

He risks a glance up and sees Mellie, her long curls tumbling around her sweet face. Her brow is furrowed in concern as she ruffles through her bag for some healing balm. "No! Demon, blood mage, let me be! I won't break!" _It isn't her. It's a trick. Don't give in!_

Ser Aeryn shakes his head. "No, Cullen, don't you see? It's Andraste Herself, come to save us…" he whispers, voice breaking as he stretches out his hand for her.

Cullen turns to him, trying to stop him but it's too late. Aeryn's hand touches the demon and he cries out in pain as his body twists and morphs, turning into a grotesque abomination. Another one of his fellows, lost. How many have turned or died? Five? Six? _Does it even matter anymore?_

He feels his heart constrict at the loss of his brothers and sisters in arms. His friends, now dead. "Ser Cullen? Why are you crying?" He hears those gentle words and recognizes the voice. The demon sounds so very much like her, sweet and kind and full of gentle innocence. He lets out a half-broken sob as he shakes his head, blood dripping from his mouth.

"You're not her…" he replies, weakly.

A hand touches his shoulder, soft but burning. "But I am real, Ser Cullen…"

He let out another sob, closing his eyes against the allure, against the sweet temptation. Anger rises in his chest, driving back the demon's touch.  _How dare they use the one woman he came so close to loving against him?_   She's dead, and they're besmirching her memory with their blasphemy.

He growls low in the back of his throat. "I will not BREAK!" he roars, eyes still closed tight. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm so sorry for the long wait in between updates. I've temporarily deactivated my FB due to the nature of the posts that have been floating around in abundance lately. Flashbacks and nightmares is not why I go there, or anywhere, and I've been taking some time to heal my head and push those dark thoughts away. 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter was hard to write because of that, but here it is, finally, and I hope you enjoy it! Feedback on the chapter is always welcome of course, and I hope you enjoy it!

Jalyn stands motionless next to Owain. A demon growls, breath a foul stench of rage and rot. Memories splinter across her mind in a shower of flashing lights and flickering faces, pain assaulting her as she doubles over. Tears streak down her face. She can feel hands, cold and clammy, running across her body in a distant memory. Unwanted, harsh, and the remembrance steals her breath.

As quick as she feels it, it's gone, vanished behind a thick haze of emptiness once more. She turns her head to look at Owain, her lips parted and face still wet with tears. An abomination glares back, flesh twisted beyond recognition. Jalyn feels nothing, her emotions already gone again. She does not wish to become the same, however. It feels uncomfortable, when the demons brush against her mind.

Owain the abomination growls, a low and guttural sound that bounces off the walls. Strange blobs of flesh and fat coat the stone columns, twisting around to form lumps of gelatinous layers that seem to quiver when the demons howl. Slime oozes down the dull, grey stone, cold and wet to the touch. Another demon hovers near, touching her mind. More memories assault her, coming back in fragmented shards of distorted images. Soft, golden eyes set behind golden curls. Another flash, and she sees a boy with mousy brown hair whispering something soft and kind in her ear. It flashes again, and a templar's  wicked glare as his hands roam her body causes her to cry out, gripping her head and screaming.

Then it's gone. She feels nothing, a calm and relaxed nothing as the demon moves away to fight a group of mages. It's not long before the mages shriek in pain, easily overwhelmed by the demon's call and their own desperation. Jalyn huddles back in the corner, hiding in the shadows. Remembering is uncomfortable.

She doesn't want to remember.

 

~*~*~

 

Firelight flickers in the shadowed embrace of night. The rotting log Melina sits on is hard and damp beneath her butt. Dane lays at her feet, watchfully guarding his new master. Regret tears at her heart at the thought of Warden Cousland.  _It should be him here,_ she can't help but think. Jowan sleeps nearby, his chest rising in uneven breaths as his eyelids move rapidly. Nightmares must plague him as he sleeps, and she prays he does not fall to the demons in the Fade. She hesitates a moment before casting a small calming spell his way, breathing a small sigh of relief when his body seems to relax.

"So, tell me, pretty thing, what's a girl like you doing hidin' away in a Chantry?" Melina turns, watching as the Lay Sister blushes softly at Daveth's words. 

Sister Leliana smiles, her red hair shining under the moonlight. "Like me?" she asks, casting her eyes to the ground before looking back at him. 

Lust touches her, a tingling sensation along her spine, flowing from Daveth as he chuckles. A stranger emotion still comes from Leliana, something hidden that she can't quite name. Melina turns away, smiling at Alistair as he joins her by the fireside. "Good evening, Warden Alistair," she murmurs.

He gives her a small smile in return, warming his hands in the soft glow of the fire. "I'm surprised you're not asleep, Mi'lady," he replies. "You must be tired."

Melina stifles a yawn behind her hand before nodding, curls piled atop her head. "I am, but the night seems so peaceful. I don't remember ever seeing the stars like this. They seem so close and so far away at the same time."

He glances up at them and pain ebbs from his body, a sharp sting of grief. "Yeah, I guess so," he mutters back.

Her lips curve down in a frown as she watches him. His high cheekbones are cast in shadows as he watches the twinkling stars. "Warden? You seem sad, what is it?" she asks, his grief a thick fog that clouds her mind.

Alistair turns to look at her, brows furrowed. "That's right, you're an empath, aren't you?"

Melina brings down her shields, carefully shutting herself away. "How did you know?"

He shrugs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I was trained as a templar before Duncan recruited me into the Wardens," he replies.

Her eyes widen as relief floods her entire being. "A templar, that's good to hear. Then that means you can sense it, if a mage starts to lose control," she whispers.

Alistair stares at her a moment, lips parted and cheeks red. "You're not afraid of templars?"

"No," she replies, smiling brightly. "They're here to protect us, right?" Her voice is tinged with a soft, desperate hope as memories of Jalyn flicker in her mind.

He swallows, nodding his head slowly. "I suppose," he says.

Melina leans back, looking up at the night sky once more. "I wonder what the Dalish will be like," she wonders, remembering Daveth's plan to seek them out first.

Alistair doesn't answer right away, just stares into the flames, a melancholy expression etched on his face. "Probably not very friendly," he finally warns, a soft sigh following his words, punctuating the end of the sentence with an air of sorrow and capitulation. 

Melina looks away, and finally notices Morrigan, camp made far away from the others. She tries, once again, to reach out with her magic to see what the strange woman is feeling but Morrigan's shields are strong, and she can sense nothing in the stillness of the night.

 

~*~*~

  

Maroth stares at the naked woman in front of him, vibrant green vines slithering around her ankles and up her legs to brush against her ample breasts. They call her the Lady of the Forest and she pleads with him to grant them mercy. The tale she whispers to him, voice soft like Andraste herself, lights a fire in his blood and he does not blame Zathrian for his revenge. If it had been his daughter... Anger makes him see red for a moment, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself.

The howling of the wolves calls to him, and he longs to answer in kind. The curse spreads rapid fire beneath his skin, running hot through his veins. He turns to Lanaya, her hands trembling as she holds her staff, tears streaking down her face. 

"You lie," Panowen says with a growl, but even her voice holds the barest hint of doubt. "Our Keeper would never... You lie."

It doesn't matter. Maroth knows the longevity of revenge, the deep seated pain of grief over losing the ones you hold most dear. Zathrian will not forgive, and bringing him here will only result in the werewolves attacking the Keeper.

And with every passing second, the curse spreads through his body. If he delays this battle, will he turn into a were as well? When he loses his body, his elven form, will he lose his mind and will as well? It's a risk he cannot take.

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself for a battle he knows he might not win. "Sorry, luv," he says, and part of him even means it. He leaps toward the Lady of the forest, his dagger cold against his hairy palms.

"We have been deceived, Lady," Swiftrunner growls, lunging to knock him out of the way. They land on the ground together, a tangle of limbs and fur. Swiftrunner's claws descend upon his chest, ripping through the fabric and leaving thick gashes on his skin.

Pain ripples through his body as blood pools around him. He grabs Swiftrunner's wrist, twisting suddenly to the left and smiling at the crunching sound of snapping bones. Swiftrunner whimpers, a lowly sound from such a great beast. Maroth rolls away, moving up so that he's hunched over, his own bones shifting and forming strangely. He lets out a rabid howl, rage surfacing through him like an out of control fire. 

Vines come up from the ground, twisting around the were leader's ankles and holding him still. Maroth grins, jaw popping and elongating. He leaps forward, dagger left forgotten, and tears at Swiftrunner's throat with his teeth. Blood, hot and metallic like heated bronze bits, fills his mouth. He licks his lips, enjoying the taste before turning toward Witherfang. She's changed into her white wolf form, liquid eyes filled with sorrow. 

She calls to him, a whisper through his mind, begging him not to do this, to help her. Please, she whispers like an insect buzzing in his brain, _please_. He howls, the sound echoing off the chamber walls, and leaps toward the beautiful white wolf. Even in the thick haze of his mind, the curse taking hold like a demon's claw, he remembers his promise to Lanaya and the others.  _He will not fail them._

Witherfang fights back but ultimately cannot win under the relentless assault of Maroth's newly formed claws, his rage only doubled by the pain and revenge he's felt ever since Nesiara's death.

Maroth's paw is wounded, limp and dangling as he licks his wounds. He watches as Athras carefully carves the heart from the white wolf, the organ dark red and dripping blood. A strange new part of him wants to devour it, swallow it whole until it rests in the pit of his belly, but he resists. He turns to Lanaya, paws held out, eyes pleading. "Will this save me?" he asks, words barely forming around his muzzle.

She bites her lip, the soft pink flesh pinched between perfectly crooked teeth. "I believe so, lethallin. Can you make it back with us?"

Panowen knocks an arrow, aiming for his heart. "He is a beast," she says, eyes narrowed.

Athras steps in front, turning his back to Maroth. "Has there not been enough death, Panowen? We have the heart, he  _can_ be cured. Slaying the one who led us here will not quench your thirst for revenge and it will not bring your husband back from the dead."

"Stand aside," she replies.

"If you will not put down your bow, then you will fight me as well." Athras' tone is firm, unyielding, and he crosses his arms across his chest. "You have killed my bond mate. I will not allow you to kill this man as well, not with all our clan owes him."

The soft rustling of fabric across the stone floor causes Maroth to turn his shaggy head to the left, pain still coursing through his body. "Put down your arrow, Panowen," Zathrian says, eyes narrowed.

Panowen grits her teeth but obeys her Keeper. She turns on her heal, walking away as swiftly as her legs will carry her, a wound in her side still dripping blood. Zathrian comes to stand in front of Maroth. "Curious," the Keeper says. "You are only half formed. The curse has yet to take you completely. In this stage, I might yet be able to cure you, with the help of Witherfang's heart. Come, if you are able."

Zathrian's spell works. The pain of his body shifting back to its normal form pulses through him, bones popping and shrinking as he screams for the Maker. A fever overtakes him, as he flits between nightmares. Images of Nesiara come to him nightly, dressed in rags and covered in blood. Her pale white arms reach for him, her mouth open in a silent scream. He's not sure for how many days or weeks he lays there, stomach burning with nausea and images of Nesiara haunting him. Sweat pours down his body and whispers reach his ears.

_"He is sick, we cannot heal...."_

_".... the curse is gone, something else ails him but..."_

 A soft hand touches his forehead and he looks into a pair of golden brown eyes, the image fuzzy around the edges. "Whatsit?" he mutters, drenched in sweat.

"I can heal him," a voice whispers, soft and sweet, just like his Nesiara.

A floating sensation lifts him up, swiftly running through his body as the sickness leaves him. His eyelids flutter open, and surprise hits him hard as he looks into the face of a shem. "W'at's this?" he asks, frowning past the lingering traces of pain.

The woman curtsies, of all bloody things, curls tumbling lose around her face. "My name is Melina Amell, of the Ferelden Circle of Magi. I come with the Grey Wardens to seek the help of the Dalish," she replies. "I've healed your illness, so you should be well in but a few days."

Maroth leans up on his elbows, brows furrowed. "Circle of Magi, is it? Ya know any elves there, shem?" His mind brings up an image of his cousin, her cinnamon red hair pulled tight in a ponytail as the templars drag her away.

The mage's lip wavers, and she takes a deep breath. "I do," she replies. "Have you family at Kinloch Hold?" Her voice is kind, and sweet, full of a sort of innocence he isn't used to hearing.

"Yeah, I do. Jalyn Surana's her name, right. Ya know her?"

Melina's eyes widen, hand flying up to cover her mouth. She nods, tears spilling from her golden eyes. "Jalyn... ." She whispers the name, tenderness in her tone. "She is my dearest friend."

Another shem rests a hand on her shoulder, his blue and silver armour covered with bloodstains. "Mi'lady, are you well?" he asks.

Maroth sits up further, recognizing the legendary Grey Warden armour. "You, yer a warden, yeah? Right, well, maybe ya can help me with somethin', and I'll help ya in return, right?"

The man narrows his eyes before he gestures for the other warden to join him. "What is it?" he asks, tone cautious.

"There's a mirror, kills people, right? It's in the forest an' I remember some of them darkspawn being near with the demons and shite." He lies about the darkspawn, hoping the Grey Wardens will help if he pleads to their goals, even if they are all shems. Jenny's a shem, and she always helped him when he needed it. 

The second warden raises his eyebrow, lips twitching. "A mirror that kills people? And darkspawn come from it?"

"From it, near it, somethin', I don't bloody know. Ya help me destroy this mirror, an' I'll join you to fight the against the Blight I keep hearin' bout," Maroth replies. "Sounds fair, innit?"

Melina shakes her head, curls bouncing around her face. "You're not well enough to travel just yet," she says, chewing her lip.

The first warden takes a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright. I thought I sensed something strange nearby," he replies. "Daveth and I will take Jowan and check it out. You stay here, Mi'lady, and watch over... " He turns to Maroth. "What's your name again?"

"Tabris. Maroth Tabris, innit right?"

The warden nods. "Right, my name's Alistair. Melina will stay with you while we check out this mirror. By the time we get back, if you're well enough to travel, you are welcome to come along."

The one he called Daveth nods in agreement. "Right! Let's go slay us a fancy darkspawn mirror, then!" He claps his hands together, winking over at a pretty red-headed shem. "We should take Leliana along. Let the two female mages stay here with the elves."

A brunette woman with yellow oval shaped eyes scoffs. "Oh, I most pleased by this, truly," she replies, sarcasm dripping from every word.

Melina smiles at her. "I will be glad for your company, Morrigan," she offers, to which the other mage simply rolls her eyes.

Alistair grunts, sneering at the one called Morrigan. "Maybe you can try to make a friend here, Morrigan. You do know what a friend is, right?"

Daveth chuckles as Maroth watches the small group bicker. "Alright, you two. Enough is enough, we have a mirror to slay, yeah?"

Maroth raises an eyebrow, heart thumping fast beneath his ribs. "How will you find it?"

This time, Alistair grins, though it isn't a happy one. "I'm a warden and a templar. I'll be able to find it," he replies, tone dry.

 

~*~*~

 

The mirror is shattered. Aneirin is avenged, even if it is not done by his own hand. Maroth stares into the dying embers of the campfire, body sore and mind a whirl. Most of his new found companions are asleep; only the Wardens, the dark-haired witch, and he are still awake. Every time he closes his eyes, nightmares form behind his lids. Nesiara, Aneirin... Too much death, and it makes his stomach roll.

He instead thinks back to Zathrian's clan. " _Please, you should stay with our clan instead. You're an elf, you belong with us."_ Lanaya's words echo around his mind. She's wrong though, and he knows it. He isn't meant for forests and campfire songs. That life isn't for him. He wonders if his daughter is happy, with Merrill and her clan. Does she enjoy the singing and dancing? Does she even still remember him?

Guilt tears at his heart as he hastily gets up from the fire. He wanders away from the camp a bit, ignoring the curious stares from the Wardens. He joins the witch called Morrigan, as she sits by her own fire and reads.

"'Ello," he says, forcing a grin. "W'ats it yer readin'?"

Morrigan looks over at him, eyebrow raised as she leans against a log. "A book of spells, of course," she replies, her accent strange to his ears.

Maroth nods, running his fingers through his long hair. "Interestin'. So, w'ats it like travellin' with the fabled Wardens?"

She lets out a sigh, setting down her book and staring up at him with her bright yellow eyes. "So many questions you are pestering me with. Are you here hoping we can be outcasts together?"

He quirks an eyebrow at her sardonic tone before scoffing. "Such a pretty lass with such a nasty attitude," he replies. 

She chuckles softly, the sound sending a tingle down his spine. "I am not here to make friends, elf. What do you want? 'Tis company you are after? Then I am most sure you can find it elsewhere."

"Sure I could, but who wou'd be as charmin' as you?" he quips back dryly.

Morrigan crosses her thin arms across her breasts, hiding them more effectively than the robes and feathers she wears. "Fine. What is it you asked? What is it like travelling with Grey Wardens, or perhaps you wish to know about all of our companions? Alistair is a twit, with scarcely any brains between his ears. Daveth is barely any better, and is more concerned with wooing the Sister than fighting this war. The two mages are hopeless fools, clinging to Chantry superstitions about magic rather than seeking the power they could have. The Lay Sister is the same as any person of the cloth; preachy and obnoxious. The dog is slobbery, but by far the smartest among them."

Maroth lets out a loud laugh that echos across the night. "Right, well at least ya don't hold yer tongue. I like a girl that speaks her mind," he says, winking. 

"Even one with a poor attitude, as you say?" she asks, raising a brow.

Maroth shrugs, leaning back on his elbows. He stares up at the moon, a half round orb partially covered in shadows. He lets his mind wander for a moment, listening to the soft sounds of crickets in the background, and the crackling of Morrigan's fire. "The silence is kind of nice, innit?"

Morrigan scoffs. "'Tis was, until you spoke."

He chuckles, settling back to lay in the grass. "I get yer point, witch," he replies.

 

~*~*~

The sun is hot on the back of Melina's neck. The sun beats down mercilessly as they travel toward Kinloch Hold.  _Home._ They're going home. Her heart is brimming with joy at the thought of seeing the tower again, if even for a day or so while the Wardens seek out allies among the mages and templars. The thought of seeing Cullen again adds a slight lift to her step. When Daveth calls for them to stop to break for midday meal, she bends to pick a white lily, placing it among her curls. It smells sweet and she inhales a deep breath as she takes the hardened piece of bread from Alistair, a smile curving her lips.

She parts her lips, a thank you ready on her tongue, when a woman comes from nowhere, eyes wild and frantic. "Please, you must help us! The wagon's over turned and we've been attacked by bandits!" She turns, running away.

Daveth grins. "Well, we must help the pretty lass, right?"

Melina hesitates, biting her lip, before speaking. "I don't think she's telling the truth," she whispers. "When she spoke, her words felt like a lie."

Alistair frowns. "A trap, then? Wonderful. No use avoiding it, however. If it's meant to be a trap, they'll find us anyway."

Daveth nudges him, brow furrowed. "Think it might be Loghain's doin'?"

Alistair nods his agreement, running his hand through his short strands of strawberry blonde hair. Maroth grabs his spear from his back, grinning in a way that sends a shiver down her spine. "Friggin' shem, well we'll show 'em, right?"

Jowan grabs his staff, glancing at nervously. "We should be careful," he warns. "I can sense they have at least one mage."

Morrigan nods in agreement, shifting into a large spider once again. She speaks around protruding fangs and Melina blanches at the sight. "'Tis true, I can sense the magic as well," Spider-Morrigan says.

Sister Leliana frowns and places a gentle hand on Daveth's shoulder. "Perhaps we can avoid fighting, yes?"

He sends her a wink, placing a finger under her chin. "Don't worry, pretty one, this fight will be over in no time. We should capture the leader though, for questionin'."

Melina steals herself as she follows her companions into battle, refusing to look at Morrigan. The sight of her shape-shifting makes her stomach roll with burning nausea. She stands in the far back, as the others fight, casting paralyzing glyphs and healing spells when she can. An arrow pierces her shoulder and she cries out in pain before strengthening her personal barrier. She doesn't heal the wound yet, however, saving those spells for the others. She watches the battle carefully, aiming each spell with precision so that only the enemy is caught in the glyphs.

Dane stays near her, tearing any enemy who gets too close to shreds with his teeth and claws. She sends a silent prayer to the Maker for the hound and his protection. Surely, by now, she'd be dead if not for Dane.

The assassins who had come for them were clearly not expecting there to be as many opponents for them to fight, and it isn't long before they all fall or flee. She winces as she lets down her barrier, limping over toward the Wardens. Alistair is frowning, staring down at an elf with pale blonde hair and a dark tattoo on his cheek. His cheekbones are high and sculpted, and covered in splatters of blood. Twin daggers lay at his feet, eyelids closed though he isn't dead.

When Daveth wakes him, he expresses clear surprise at still being alive, and Melina opens her shields to sense what he's feeling. He answers each question Daveth fires at him with a strange accent Melina recognizes as Antivan from one of the mages at Kinloch. Over the years, her friend's accent has quieted, but when she first came to the tower she said she hailed from Antiva City, much the same as this elf.

She's never heard of the Crows, however, and crinkles her brow when he speaks the name. "Crow? You do not appear to be a bird," she says, voice soft.

Her cheeks burn bright red as Daveth lets out a loud laugh, tears streaming from his eyes. "He doesn't mean that kind of crow, duckling. It's a famous, or rather infamous, guild of assassins."

Cheeks still red from embarrassment, she hangs her head. "Oh," is all she can reply.

Jowan bumps her shoulder with his, offering her a hesitant smile. "I didn't know what they were, either," he whispers to her.

Morrigan scuttles closer, still in spider form, and clicks her pincers toward the assassin. "What is your name, elf?" she asks, words slurred slightly due to the strange mouth they're formed in.

The elf's eyebrows fly up, eyes widening as he stares at the spider. "You Fereldans are a strange lot, indeed. This is your form of torture, no? Though I must say, I prefer other forms of torture, like the kind using rope and beautiful woman or man. Spiders, I do not care for," he replies, shivering slighting and wincing from the pain in his wounds. "But I digress. Zevran Arainai, at your service."

Melina steps forward, curtsying before speaking. "I can heal your wounds, if you like, Ser Arainai."

Zevran raises an eyebrow at her. "Hmmm? What's this? Heal my wounds? Ser? You Fereldans are certainly a strange lot," he mutters.

Alistair places a hand on her wrist, shaking his head. "He's an _assassin_ , Mi'lady, and one sent to kill us. We're not healing his wounds," he whispers in her ear.

"B-but you can't kill him now! That would be murder, the battle is over," she replies, spinning around to look Alistair in the eyes. Her heart is pounding fast beneath her rib cage, and she can sense a tinge of regret from Alistair. "Please, can't we just let him go?"

Zevran chuckles, leaning back on his elbows. "Ah, to be defended so by such a pretty woman, the Maker's blessed me, no? I have an even better proposition for you, if you Wardens care to listen."

Maroth leans carefully on his spear, his full lips twisted into a smirk. "A proposition, right? Well, that sounds like it cou'd either be a fun time or a deadly one," he quips.

The assassin lets out another chuckle, this time winking over at Maroth. "That is not quite what I had in mind, though I could warm your bed if you like."

Daveth rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Waves of frustration roll off him, though it's tinged with a wry sort of amusement. "Right, well get on with it then. What do you want?"

"It is more what you want, Grey Warden, though I would like to stay alive if I may. I am quite skilled at many things. Battle, poisons, picking locks, sex... The choice is yours of course," he replies, and Melina feels her entire body go red at his words. "In exchange for my life, I will be indebted to you, to do with as you please."

Alistair crosses his arms, shaking his head. "And what is to stop you from killing us all in our sleep?"

Zevran raises an eyebrow, a smiling playing with the edges of his lips. "Why, your skill of course. As well as my oath."

Sister Leliana tap a finger to her lips, one eyebrow raised. "The Maker would approve if we granted this sinner mercy where others would not."

"'Tis would be useful to have an assassin with us, though I would examine your food and drink more closely, were I you," Morrigan adds, shifting back into her human form.

"That is good advice for anyone, no?"

Daveth chews his lip, and Melina can tell he's mulling over the idea. "Alright, I suppose. Probably not my wisest choice, yeah? But why not. At the very least, you can carry the packs, assassin. Melina, go ahead an' heal him."

She curtsies toward the Grey Warden, beaming. "Thank you," she replies, before casting a healing spell over Zevran, knitting together the skin and bones that need it.

Zevran gets to his feet, bowing his head toward them all. "I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation, this I swear." He sends a wink toward Melina, and she looks away quickly.

She sends another prayer to the Maker, hoping they get to Kinloch Hold quickly and without further incident. She wonders, as they walk, if Cullen will be glad to see her again. A gentle smile curves her lips upward as she thinks of him, and the soft blush that always coloured his cheeks when they spoke.

 

~*~*~

 

Whispers, so many whispers, running through his mind. Cullen's body  has become numb to the burning feel of demons brushing against him. He can hear his blood echoing in his ears, pounding so loud that not even the voice of the demon can be heard over it.

All he sees is red. His body trembles at the thought of killing ever mage that lives in the tower. _How could he have ever sympathized with these vicious monsters?_ Anger makes the veins in his forehead pop in vast relief against his pale, taunt skin. Gashes like open, angry mouths cover his arms and legs, dried blood stuck to the edges of each wound. They had stolen his blood when they could not take his mind. _Wretched, Maker-accursed blood mages._

He hates them all. For every bit of pain, for every dead friend, he hates them. He lets out a roar, smashing his fists into the ground, wishing like the void that he is free of this cage so he can kill them all.

The demon forms before his eyes again and he growls at it, a low guttural sound he doesn't recognize. It almost amuses him, the irony of the situation. The thing they keep tormenting him with, that woman… He hates her, too, now. They have beaten away at every good feeling he has ever felt toward any mage and all that is left is a bitter hate and dark rage.

"Begone, demon! I want not what you offer," he says, eyes narrowed.

The demon smiles, the malice in the expression not matching the face it's formed on. "Then you will break from pain," it whispers, soft and sweet like a promise.

Cullen tenses, a grim expression on his face as he wipes a bit of blood from his lip, rising to his feet. "Do your worst, monster."

A bolt of lightning shoot its way through his body as he cries out, a sharp piercing sound against the silence. The ground hits his knees before he knows he's falling. A wordless cry keeps echoing in his ears, a desperate high-pitched screech, and he realizes too late he's the one making that Maker awful sound. He collapses, the stone floor cold against his face, body convulsing in pain.

The rest of the templars are dead. Cullen looks around, the few remaining templars who had held out against the blood mages nothing more than corpses left to rot.

He is the last of them. Pain continues to vibrate through his body. Different visions of Mellie torment him, day after day until days turn into weeks and maybe longer yet. Sometimes she's in simple mage robes, a book in hand and wide, frightened eyes. She begs and pleads with him to save her, tears streaming down her beautiful, plump face. Other times she wears a commoner's dress, hair pulled up and the sweetest of smiles. She promises him that this is nothing more than a nightmare, that there is no magic, and to come home to their farm.

And sometimes, though it shames him to admit it, she's nude, her pale skin glistening in the candlelight. He feels his groin react to the sight and curses his body for its reactions. He knows it isn't her but his body pulses in response in spite of that knowledge. How he once longed to take her, make her his despite knowing they can never be.

"Ser Cullen," the demon's voice whispers, its breath tickling his ear.

_No. He won't respond. He **will** ignore it. If he…_

Pain shoots its way through his skull, stealing his breath and his vision. "No! I won't, I won't, I won't!" he cries out, refusing to answer, refusing to give in. He will be strong. He  _must_ be strong.

"Please, save me, Ser Cullen," it begs.

He is beginning to hate both the sound of that voice and the way the demon's eyes mirror the real thing so well. Every time he looks at the demon shaped as Melina, he can feel the hate and bile rise up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why I never mentioned Sten, it's because they didn't recruit him. Though I love Sten to bits (he's my favourite Qunari we've met so far), he just doesn't have a place in this story and I can't see Daveth recruiting him anyway. 
> 
>  
> 
> As for the Morrigan bit being able to talk while in animal form, I have no idea if it's possible. Game mechanics would suggest no, actually, but lore doesn't point out one way or another. I've read books where shapeshifters can, and ones where they can't, so for the purpose of this particular series, they can. Hopefully you can bear with this, and it doesn't seem jarring or annoying. :)
> 
> Jenny is Red Jenny, or rather my OC who I imagine is Red Jenny. Thief Sleeps in my Bed tells her story and she has a cameo in Maroth's back story, A Smuggler's Chant. She is my favourite OC from this particular HC.
> 
> Slight lore spoiler for Asunder:
> 
> Tranquility is cured when a demon or spirit touches the mind of a tranquil mage, or so we learn in Asunder. Also, in DA:O when we travel through Kinloch Hold, there is a room where several tranquil can become abominations if you don't slay the demons in time. The longer the fight goes on, the more tranquil get turned. If you click on them, the quote is something along the lines of "Thank you. That was most uncomfortable." I imagine that they would have simply been untranquiled if the demons weren't fighting for their lives so to speak and pulled into our world against their will. Had they came willingly, and been spirits instead of demons, or even a more powerful demon, then they simply would have been cured of the tranquility.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice a slight shift in format here. Now that everyone's met up and connected, you'll see less pov shifting, and more single chapters done in one pov- though it will still shift between Tabris, Amell, and Surana, just per chapter instead of per scene.
> 
> And remember the concept behind this is the story we all know is the the one the bard's tell, and it's wrong. This is the "true tale" so to speak, which is why some things are flipped or changed.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry for the stranger underline format of the one line later on in the chapter, I can't get it to go away no matter what I do.

Kinloch Hold sits shadowed against a bright full moon. The lake glistens as they row across, gleaming in its murky darkness. Melina sits at the back of the ferry, hands folded in her lap. Her heart aches as she remembers Kester's words of warning that something terrible has happened. Kester had been kind to her when she first left the Tower. He snuck her a bit of cookie when the templars weren't looking, and to see him without his ferry, the  _Lissie,_  is heartbreaking _._ She can sense his love for the old pieces of wood, a sentimental value that hovers around him like a cloud. 

Carroll glares down at her, eyebrows furrowed together in a way that makes her uncomfortable, as he rows them across the tepid lake. A strange aura wafts from him, anger and confusion muddled together that makes the hairs on the back of her neck stick up. She looks away, glancing toward Alistair instead. He sits next to her, face stoic as they come ever closer to Kinloch Hold.

A wave of impenetrable darkness slams into her, stealing her breath as she clutches at her chest. Tears fall from her eyes as the nightmarish aura beats against her head, like a thousand lost voices screaming in pain and rage. Her knees hit the base of the ferry, bruising her flesh as she struggles to breath past the pain ripping through her. 

A calm hand rests on her shoulder and she can hear Alistair's voice through the haze. "Mi'lady, what is it? Are you alright?" 

She shakes her head, tears streaming down her plump cheeks. "Maker, I can't... It's too much," she whispers.

Suddenly a soft, warm feeling enters her, chasing back the darkness, forming a gentle barrier around her core. "There, is that better?" Alistair asks, brows furrowed as she looks into his eyes.

Melina remembers him telling her he's a templar as well as a warden, and smiles her gratitude. "Thank the Maker for you, Warden Alistair," she replies.

Maroth grunts on her other side, handing her a small bit of tattered cloth. It's rough against her fingertips;  a dark green with delicate embroidery. "Here, take it. Dry yer eyes now, right, an' toughen up. If it feels that bad comin' up to the blasted place, I imagine inside's gonna feel a shite bit worse." He mutters the words harshly, but his hands are gentle when he passes her the cloth.

Daveth looks back at the them from his seat at the front of the ferry, a smirk twisting his lips. "Well, so much fer this bein' easy. Right then, I'm starting to regret telling Morrigan and Jowan to wait back with Leliana and Zevran at the Spoiled Princess. Shoulda brought them mages with at least, eh Alistair?"

Alistair frowns before shaking his head, his templar powers still giving of a soft radiance of warmth. "I don't know if  _more_ mages are needed, if things are already that bad in the Tower," he replies, tone hesitant. He glances over at Melina, catching her eyes. "Mi'lady, if you'd rather sit this one out, and go back to the tavern... ."

Melina firmly shakes her head no, lips pursed tight. "Beg pardon, Warden, but no. This my home. My friends live here. I have to help. I know if Jalyn were... I can't leave now. I have to save her, I have to. I swear I won't be in the way," she replies, clutching the strange fabric of her new robes in her fists.  _I also have to save Cullen. Oh please, Maker, let him be okay,_ she adds silently.

Alistair nods, placing a hand a top her head to ruffle her curls. "Alright, I believe you. We'll save who we can, Mi'lady."

She smiles again, grabbing a hold of his shirt sleeve. "Warden Alistair, you remind me of someone I used to know when I was little," she says, cheeks reddening in the moonlight.

He raises a brow at her, his own cheeks also reddening. "O-Oh is that right? Uh- Who might that be?" he asks, stammering slightly.

She closes her eyes, trying to bring the faded memory into a closer view. It's there, just on the outskirts of her mind, hesitant and dwindling the more she tries to bring it into focus. "I think I had a brother once," she says, still trying to remember. "He had dark hair, or maybe my memory is just dimmed. I think he used to ruffle my hair like that, before he went away."

"Went away? W'ats that supposed to mean?" Maroth asks. His voice is low, almost as if he's afraid to ask.

Melina shrugs her shoulders, opening her eyes again. "I don't really remember much, I'm sorry. I was young when I first came to Kinloch Hold."

Carroll clears his throat, a deep gravelly sound. "Alright you lot, we're here. Get out and be about your business now."

Melina flinches at the harsh sound of his voice but gets to her feet and carefully steps out of the ferry onto the bit of dry land the tower sits on. The doors creak with an ominous sound as they're pulled open, candlelight flickering from inside. An air of despair seeps through, brushing against her as she clutches the folds of her robes in her fists. Her mind screams at her to run, that this place is  _wrong_ somehow, but she straightens her shoulders and pushes through. She can't give up. For Jalyn and Cullen, she just can't.

The smell of rotting bodies hits her hard and bile rises in the back of her throat. She can feel the death, a decaying stench that permeates the air. Demons howl in the distance, their voices a deep growl that echo in her ears. She shudders, a cold chill settling at the base of her spine that she can't shake no matter how she tries. She reaches for her pendant, shaped like Andraste, and grips it tightly in her fist.  _But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me._

Knight-Commander Greagoir greets them with a scowl, his bushy dark grey eyebrows pulled tight together. "What's this? No one is to enter or leave the tower. It isn't secure," he says, silver armour clanking as he walks toward them.

Melina steps forward, curtsying as she meets his eyes. "Knight-Commander, I've come with the last of the Grey Wardens who seek the aide of the mages against the Blight. What's happened here?" 

His eyes widen as he takes in the state of her dress, gaze roaming across her plump form. "What in the Maker's name... you survived? Wynne said everyone else died... ." His voice trails off in amazement as he stares at her, lips parted, before he shakes his head and resumes speaking. "It doesn't matter, we're in no state to help the Wardens now. You can feel it, can't you, girl? It's chaos here. I'm awaiting the Right of Annulment."

Tears prick at her eyes, but she refuses to let them fall. The Wardens need to see that she can be strong, if she's to be of help to them. "Please, Ser, let us help. We can save them, I know we can," she replies, taking a step closer, eyes pleading. She knows Greagoir is a good man. He has a protective nature to him, she just needs to appeal to that.

Daveth steps forward, his Grey Warden armour catching the low beams of candlelight. "I know what you lot have goin' on here seems terrible, but the Blight won't be stopped without allies to fight it."

The Knight-Commander shakes his head, regret flashing in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Warden, but I cannot risk anymore of my men to this madness. Once the Right arrives, and the tower has been purged, the remaining templars can assist you against the Blight."

"Pardon me, Knight-Commander, but I had templar training before I joined the Wardens. I know what we would be up against in there, and it's worth the risk. No Grey Warden  can defeat a Blight alone, even with our special skills. We  _need_ the mages, however dangerous things here might be right now." Alistair's face is kept bland, unblinking as he meets the Knight-commander's steady gaze, but Melina can feel his nervousness as he stands there, waiting. His fingers twitch behind his back, where only Melina can see.

Greagoir stands there, stock still, for a moment. He doesn't blink, and Melina can tell he's carefully regarding the words Alistair has spoken. Finally, he lets out a sigh, eyes full of weariness, and nods. "Alright, but I can't let you back out unless I hear from Irving. Otherwise, you'll be trapped in there, too, when the Right comes."

Melina smiles in gratitude, her lower lip wobbling a bit as she does. "Ha-Have you... That is, do you know who is in there?" She wants to ask after Cullen, but knows she can't. If she asks after one templar specifically, Greagoir would know her feelings for him. The Knight-commander is a smart man, if he puts two and two together... She suppresses a shiver at what would happen to Cullen, or herself, if anyone knew.  _Andraste, please, protect him._

Greagoir frowns, shaking his head. "Everyone is in there, child, except those you see standing around you. I'm sure most of them have turned into abominations or are dead. I'm afraid you won't find many survivors."

Her heart plummets to her stomach, a heavy weight covering her like an oppressive blanket of dark thoughts. Maker, how could this have happened? Kinloch Hold is supposed to be  _safe_ , and now it's broken and full of chaos. Her eyes widen as a thought hits her, hard like a punch to the gut. "The tranquil... ," she whispers, words trailing off at the end.

The Knight-commander nods, eyes filling with pity. "They're still in there, as well. Surana should be near Owain, if she's still alive."

Maroth steps forward, shoulders tight and eyes blazing. "W'at's this? W'at about my cousin? W'at in the bloody void is friggin' tranquil?"

Melina flinches, burying her face in her hands. "Oh, Jalyn, she has to be safe. The tranquil can't be turned, right? They're safe, they  _have_ to be. Oh, sweet Andraste, please let Jalyn be safe."

"Somebody better tell me w'at in the void yer all talkin' about," Maroth warns, his voice a low growl.

Greagoir frowns, armour clanking as he shifts, crossing his arms over his chest. "Cousin, is it?" He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I'm sorry for you to hear this way, but tranquility is when a mage is cut off from the Fade. Their magic and emotions are taken from them. Some chose to be this way. In Surana's case, she was a blood mage, and a rebellious one at that. It was a punishment to protect the other mages here."

Melina can feel Maroth's emotions turn bright red, anger pulsing from him in burning hot waves. She looks up at him, his entire body shaking with rage as he glares up at the Knight-commander, face taunt. "My cousin is no blood mage," he says, voice dangerously low. "I don't care w'at you lot say. It's a load of shite."

She grabs his arm, swallowing past her tears. "Please... ." she begins, before he cuts her off with a snarl.

"Why didn't you tell me? You should 'ave warned me!"

Melina hangs her head, taking a deep breath before replying. "She wasn't a blood mage. I know it, there was no corruption to her, but there was nothing I could do. First Enchanter Uldred had testified, and no one would believe an apprentice. I'm so sorry, I should have saved her but I couldn't." Guilt washes over and through her, hot and cold at the same time. 

Greagoir grunts, shifting again. "Considering it was Uldred who started this bloody mess, I'm not surprised."

Her head shoots up as she stares at Greagoir. "Uldred...? B-But, why?" She whispers the question, hands shaking.

Alistair lays a hand on her shoulder. "We should hurry, if we're to save your friend," he reminds her gently.

"Right, let's not waste more time talkin' when there's shit to do. Come on, let's get this over with," Daveth adds, eyes shifting nervously toward the door that holds back the demons and abominations howling within. "Bloody friggin' mages," he mutters.

Maroth raises an eyebrow at the warden. "You afraid of magic, Daveth?" he asks.

Daveth shrugs, thumb rubbing along the hilt of his dagger. "I grew up with tales of them Witches of the Wilds, right? My mum used to use tales of Flemeth to scare me into being good as kid."

"So yer superstitious," Maroth replies. 

Daveth frowns, brown eyes full of annoyance. "It ain't superstition if it's true," he mutters.

Greagoir just grunts again, motioning for the templars to open the doors for them. Melina straightens her shoulders and grips her staff tightly in her hands.  _O' Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked, make me to rest in the warmest places._

 

_~*~*~_

 

The corruption is thick in the air, twisted and slick against her skin. Great blobs of flesh twist around the once pure columns of stone. It reminds her of the darkspawn taint they had seen in the Tower of Ishal, depraved and abnormal. A sense of wrongness emanates from the strange substance and Melina struggles not to look at it. Burning fire scorches her skin as a blood mage shoots flames at her. She recognizes the face of one she had once called friend, a fellow student she had practiced spells with when they were still apprentices. Children scream in fear behind her, and she erects a barrier to shield them from the blast.

Her eyes dart around, making sure her companions are safe, and sees Maroth limping as he uses his spear to pierce an abomination's grotesque flesh. She sends a healing spell toward him, gently knitting the broken bone and bruised flesh. Petra encases the creature in ice, lips turned down in a hard line as she fights next to Wynne. The two mages work in tandem to defeat a large rage demon, shooting spells so quick that Melina can't tell who is firing what as Daveth darts and rolls between them.

Kinnon shouts a warning at her and she raises another barrier just in time to avoid pellets of rock hitting her in the face. She furrows her brow and calls up her mana, sending arcane bolts toward the blood mage attacking her. The children behind her are crying, heavy sobs that punctuate the air even through the sounds of battle. Their fear, a searing pain that pricks along her skin, fuels her determination to defeat her foes. How anyone could harm such innocent, small children... It sparks an intense anger she wasn't aware she had inside her, and she throws a lightening bolt toward the mage she had once called friend. He screams in pain, and the thick smell of burning flesh fills the air as his skin crackles and pops.

She turns her attention toward Alistair as the warden blocks a blast of fire. It burns along his skin, despite his metal shield, and she envelopes him in a barrier spell to protect him from the blunt of the blast. Keili sends a boulder toward the mage, knocking her to the ground, and Alistair spins his sword around, piercing through her chest as blood stains the stone.

As the battle ends, the last of the blood mages, abominations, and demons finally vanquished, Melina feels her energy leave her in a rush. She turns, eyelids heavy, toward the children and offers them a small smile. "Are you alright?" she asks, recognizing most of them. Greagoir had allowed her to hold weekly reading sessions for the children, and while it was usually Chant of Light verses she read, sometimes Wynne would give her a book of fables. Her moments spent telling the stories were always her favourite, and the children seemed to enjoy it as well. 

One in particular, a little red-headed girl name Lydia, steps forward, thumb in her mouth. She buries her face into Melina's skirts, tears pouring down her face. "It's scary," she mumbles, clutching Melina's robe tightly in her little fists. "Why are they trying to hurt us?"

Melina kneels down, embracing the girl close and patting her hair. "It's alright, the Maker will protect you, sweetheart. And so will we," she whispers, heart clenching in pain and anger both.

Daveth stumbles over to her, blood pouring from a wound in his side. His skin is pallid, sweat dripping down his face. "If ya don't mind, I could use some of that healing magic of yours," he says with a grunt. Melina gets to her feet, a reply on the tip of her tongue when Wynne interrupts.

"Here, I can take care of that," she says, her wispy grey hair falling in sweat-slicked tendrils around her wrinkled face. She casts a quick healing spell that seems to fill the room, healing any scrapes or deep wounds in a single breath. "There now, that's better," she says. 

Melina smiles at her mentor, wishing she could run to her and hug her tightly. "I had thought you died at Ostagar, Wynne. Maker, but I'm so glad you yet live," she says, eyes shining. "Do you know how the others fair? Niall? Evelina?" 

Wynne shakes her head, aging lips turning down into a deep frown. "I have not seen Evelina, child, but Niall is here. Last I saw, he was running from a demon. But the fighting was so thick, I cannot say if he survived. I'm not sure Evelina made it back from Ostagar."

"Then we should find him," she replies, eyes flickering toward Daveth.

He nods, offering her a quick smile. "Of course, if we can. That's the plan, right?" He turns to look at Alistair, their eyes meeting across the room as the other warden walks toward him. "You alright there, Alistair? This ain't so bad, right? Nothin' we mighty Grey Wardens can't defeat, ey?" His tone is drier than normal, and Melina can feel he's struggling to hide his fear.

"Don't worry, Ser Daveth. If we work together, we'll get through this," she assures him.

He quirks an eyebrow at her, lips curving into a lopsided smile. "Well ain't you our little ray of sunshine, eh?" He chuckles, shaking his head. 

Alistair joins them, hand reaching out almost instinctively to ruffle her hair. He gives her a small smile, eyes twinkling. "Stay optimistic, Mi'lady. We'll need that, here especially."

Wynne looks between the three, and then widens her eyes as she takes in the revealing nature of Melina's robes. "Goodness sake, child, where in the Maker's name did you get that outfit?" She sighs, shaking her head. "Never mind, we haven't the time for idle conversation. We need to hurry if we're to save the circle."

Daveth nods his agreement, motioning for Maroth. "Right. Well, you lot can stay here and watch the children. We'll continue on and- Why are you shakin' your head, old woman?" 

Wynne meets his gaze head on, shoulder straight as a rod. "I may be old, child, but don't think I can't still take out my walking stick and smack you in the head for your impudence. I'm going with you, of course. I know the tower better than you Wardens, and can guide you through it."

Alistair rubs the back of his neck, and the motion reminds Melina painfully of Cullen. "Uh, that's kind of you to offer and all, but Miss Amell can guide us just fine."

Melina beams, surprised that Alistair trusts in her to guide them through such horror, but Wynne just frowns deeper. "Melina should stay with the children. Someone as...," She pauses, glancing over at her for a moment before continuing. "Someone as delicate as her shouldn't face the demons we're bound to encounter."

Her heart sinks at Wynne's words, disappointment flooding her. She opens her mouth to speak, but Maroth cuts in before she has a chance. "W'at's this? That's a load shite, innit? I don't know who you are, an' I don't much care, but yer daft if you think yer comin' with us. Last thing we need is an air thief hobblin' after us."

Wynne's eyes grow wide at his crude words. "Well, I never heard such poor manners from a young person in all my years," she says.

"First time for everythin'," Maroth mutters. 

"Now you listen here," Wynne says, pointing her finger at him. "Don't you think you get to talk down to me just because you're with the Wardens. I know Melina, I was her mentor here and-"

Maroth narrows his eyes at her. "Yeah? You ain't a very good one if ya ask me, not if ya talk so low of her like this."

"Excuse me, not to interrupt but Tabris is right. Miss Amell has been with us from the start, and she's staying with us," Alistair says. "If you really insist on coming along, that's fine, but we're not leaving our companion behind."

Daveth nods his agreement, bumping his shoulder with Melina's. "She's tougher than she looks, yeah? Now let's stop this fight and be on our way. We've got demons to slay and shit."

Melina feels her heart swell with gratitude at their words, shocked that they would come to her defense so quickly. She curtsies toward them, bowing low. "I won't let you down, I swear it," she says, fingers trembling as she holds the edges of the tattered robes in her hands.

Wynne sighs, nodding. "Alright, then lets go. Petra and the others will watch over the children."

 

~*~*~

 

Melina's heart is racing fast in her chest as she runs toward Jalyn, pulse in her throat. "Jalyn!" She wraps the tranquil mage in a tight hug, clutching her close as she tries to calm herself. "Oh, thank the Maker. I- I don't know what I'd do if you died."

Jalyn squirms, shifting out of her embrace. "It is good you are here. The demons are uncomfortable," she replies, voice monotone.

Maroth steps up beside them, jaw slack as he stares at his cousin. "Jalyn? Ya remember me, right? Ya used to call me a  pug-ugly arse?"

Jalyn stares at him, expression blank as a clear slip of paper. "You are Maroth Tabris. We are cousins. I remember you."

"W'at in the Maker's name did they do ta ya?" His voice is shaking with anger as he looks at his cousin. "Ya used to be a feisty little shite."

"I am tranquil. You are uncomfortable? I feel nothing," she replies, and Melina's heart breaks.

Maroth turns away, and she can feel his pain brushing against her like a cold wind. "Right. That's w'at the man in shiny friggin' armour said. Bloody shite."

Wynne clicks her tongue against her cheek. "We don't have time for this."

Daveth quirks his eyebrow up, shaking his head. "I don't like agreein' with her, but we are in a bit of rush, right? Them tranquil, they can't fight, yeah?"

Melina shakes her head. "No, their magics been taken." She turns to Jalyn, eyes filled with worry. Her dearest friend, her closest confident, stares back at her with bland eyes. Melina still remembers when the deep green orbs once flashed with fiery passion, her thin frame taunt with barely controlled emotions. Her fervent desire for mages to be free from templars, her burning hatred of their protectors, her intense disdain for the Chantry... All of the things that made her who she was are gone, branded out of her with a simple Rite. "Jalyn, if you go back the way we've come from, you should be safe. We've cleared the way. Petra, Keili, and Kinnon are there with the children. You'll be safe."

"Oh no, she's comin' with us," Maroth interrupts, folding his arms across his chest. "Ain't no way I'm lettin' her outta my sight."

Alistair leans against the wall, hands fidgeting with his sword. "Right, but won't she only be a liability? She can't even defend herself."

Melina bites her lip, brow furrowed as she thinks. "Honestly, I doubt the demons will pay her much mind, especially if there are mages and other people for them to attempt to prey on."

Maroth just glares at them all, face set in a hard line. "She's family an' I ain't lettin' her come to any harm," he replies, tone stubborn.

"Right then, whatever. She's your responsibility, yeah? Let's go. We don't have time to argue over it now," Daveth says, running a hand through his hair. "Bloody shittin' demon-infested tower," he grumbles, heading toward the next room with his daggers held at the ready. "I hate demons."

Maroth chuckles, following after him, hand grabbing Jalyn's and tugging her along. "Right, well I don't think anyone  _likes_ demons, shem."

Alistair snorts, the sound somewhere between amusement and annoyance. "Well, someone did to summon so many of the blighted things."

Wynne pushes past them with a small shake of her head. "I never realized the Wardens recruited such insanity," she mumbles, casting a glance toward Melina.

 

 

~*~*~

 

With each battle, Melina grows more and more weary. Fatigue and hopelessness claws at her mind as she watches more of her former friends change into horrific abominations. She wonders how she has missed the signs. She should have felt this coming, noticed the increased desperation before it became this bad. She turns to Wynne as they rest in the library, the last of the enemies cleared from the room. The men lean against the far wall, resting their bodies for a moment. How did Wynne not sense this either? Her magic is more powerful, her empathic skills more keen.

Wynne looks over at her, and hands her a flask of water. "What is it, child? You have something on your mind?"  Her normally gentle tone is edged with a sharpness Melina isn't used to, and she flinches as she reaches for the canteen.

The metal is cold against her fingers as she takes a long drink. The water is warm against the back of her throat, but still soothing and wet. Jalyn hovers near by, standing perfectly still, but face splattered with tiny specks of blood. Melina takes a moment to collect her thoughts before responding, unsure of how to say what she's thinking. "Pardon me if my question is impudent, Senior Enchanter, but how did this happen with no one suspecting it? Shouldn't we have... felt it coming?" She keeps her eyes glued to the floor, staring at the blood stains.

Wynne lets out a heavy sigh. "I don't know, child. I trusted Uldred. His ideas have always been somewhat fanatic but we studied together in our youth. He was a good man, once. I'm not sure when that changed, but I never thought to look for any form of corruption in him." She places a gentle hand on Melina's head. "It seems as though I've been harsh with you, doesn't it? You'll have to forgive an old woman her worry. As mentors, we come to care for all our pupils but you were always a special one. I suppose I've come to care for you more than my other pupils, and I feared I lost you once already. I thought if I kept you from venturing further into the tower, you'd be safer. And we've been fighting these monsters for weeks now. I'm old, and tired, and I should not have been so harsh."

Melina's lips are parted as she stands there, holding the partially empty flask. Her heart skips a beat, as she processes Wynne's words. "I thought you found me weak," she finally whispers.

Wynne quirks an eyebrow in her direction, the dark circles under her eyes standing out in stark relief against the grey paleness of her skin. "Ah, did it seem that way? I suppose it did. I'm sorry, child. I'm an old woman, and some days I feel it more than others."

"You're not old at all," Melina assures her, heart a bit lighter than it has been in weeks. Wynne cocks an eyebrow at her, and she giggles in response. "Well, maybe just a little. But you're stronger than anyone I know. You'll be fine, I know it."

"Hmph," Wynne scoffs. "Well, we better get a move on. And thank you, my dear, for listening to an old woman's prattling."

Daveth motions for them to join them, a smear of blood covering his chin. "How much further we got until we reach this Uldred fellow? Or Irving? Blasted stairs are a pain in the arse."

"Well, it  _is_ a tower, Daveth," Alistair replies.

Daveth makes a rude gesture toward his fellow warden. "Right, well I've seen enough bleedin' towers to last a life time, haven't I? And there's never anything good once we reach the top, neither. If there's another ogre in this one, by the Maker's hairy nutsack I'm goin' to be right pissed."

Maroth laughs, the sound a deep rumble. "An ogre? Well that sounds like about as much fun as the shittin' dragon I found."

Melina's eyes grow wide. "A- A real dragon? Truly?"

"Well, it might 'ave been a tiny one," Maroth admits with a shrug. "Anyway, we're more likely ta find some new breed of abomination or somethin, innit though?"

"What a cheery thought," Alistair replies, tone dry. "Right, we better get a move on. I feel something ahead. Not quite sure what it is, but it's worse than what we've encountered so far."

Daveth grunts, rolling his deep brown eyes. "Speakin' of cheery thoughts."

 

~*~*~

 

Melina blinks, her whole body heavy and lethargic.  _Where in the Maker's name am I?_ She looks around, taking in her surroundings and trying to remember what she had been doing. A thin, wool blanket lays across her legs. She tilts her head back, and notices another bunk above her.  _I'm home? Was I having a dream?_   She shivers, pushing the blanket off her lap and getting to her feet.

The apprentice quarters is cold, and she can see her breath form in tiny foggy puffs in front of her face. The room is empty, bare of the usual people chattering away. "Jalyn?" She calls out for her friend, hoping to see a familiar face. "Where are you?"

A woman steps through the doorway without a sound. Her long ebony hair is piled loose around her head, falling in soft tendrils to frame out her heart-shaped face. Her skin is pale, with a soft blue undertone that reminds Melina of ice. Her full lips are deep red, a vivid contrast to the deathly greyish skin. As she walks, her chocolate brown robes swish against the stone floor, the silken fabric whispering as she glides toward Melina. The neckline is deep and plunging, revealing large breasts held up by a tightly pulled corset done in red velvet.

Melina drops a curtsy out of habit, but keeps her eyes on the strange woman. "Pardon me, but who are you?" she asks, feeling wary of the girl.

The woman smiles, a quick turn of her lips. "You may call me Izanami. I have come to offer you a choice."

"You're a demon," Melina accuses, stepping back until her legs hit the edge of the bed. "Stay back! I'll make no deals with your ilk." Her voice wavers despite her brave words, and she wishes the other were here, remembering in a rush the demon who has lulled them into the Fade. 

Izanami pouts, pursing her lips together. Her golden eyes twinkle with amusement though as she regards Melina. "You hurt my feelings, mortal. I am not a demon, and I've come to help you. I could sense your thoughts from my realm, and He has placed you here as a plaything for a nearby demon He commands."

"He?" Melina questions, confusion a thick fog that clouds her brain. 

"Mmhmm. He is Sloth, the demon who controls this area. He has a few lesser demons under His command, each one holding your friends in twisted nightmares of their own memories."

Melina's mouth feels dry as she lets out a slow breath. She holds her Andraste pendant in her hand, the chain cold against her throat, and rubs the worn figure with her thumb.  "Maker save us. A Sloth demon... ." Her sentence trails off as chilly tendrils of fear snake their way through her brain. She wonders, for a moment, if it's the same Sloth demon she had met in her Harrowing. She doubts escaping this one, whether it be the same or not, will be as easy as answering a few riddles, however.

The demon, or whatever it is, nods.  "Your friends lay trapped by twisted spirits that reveal their own hidden... sins, if you will. The demon that awaits you is one of Hunger, a spirit that has been twisted from Compassion. But I can offer you a choice before you face it, a way to... How do you mortals say it? Add an extra feather to your cap?"

Melina shakes her head, fear making her heart pound. "Wynne warned me of your kind, and I don't make deals with demons," she whispers. A soft buzzing forms around her head, and a glowing light appears. It hums a soft, soothing sound, and she recognizes it as the spirit from her Harrowing.

Izanami frowns, eyes narrowed at the wisp. "Pesky little creature, begone," she says, eyes flashing.

The wisp just glows a little brighter before entering inside of Melina. She gasps, eyes widening as she listens to the loud rumbling sound of the wisp spirit inside her. A calming warmth, a pure emotion she can't describe, runs through her.  _It's okay, you're not alone,_ it whispers in her mind.

"Well, that puts quite the crimp in my plan, as you say. Ah well, I can still offer you a choice, mortal. Perhaps this one will be more fun, after all."

Melina opens her mouth to reply, but Izanami cuts her off with a simple wave of her hand. "Ah, hear me out before you deny me my offer. You have two trapped with this place who you hold most dear. Your friend, Jalyn Surana, the elven mage. For now, her tranquility holds. It keeps her safe, but that will not last. The demon who rules the island where she's kept will touch her mind, breaking her tranquility. When this happens, her emotions will return and drive her insane, allowing the demon to possess her easily."

Melina's hear skips a beat at the demon's words, and the Spirit of Faith inside her confirms the truth of it. Her palms are sweaty as she licks her lips, but she can't bring herself to interrupt the demon again.

"I see I finally have your attention. Good," Izanami continues. Her lips split into a wide grin, her shiny teeth gleaming in the candlelight. "I can save your friend from this fate, you see. I can cure her from her tranquility in smaller doses, so that she is not overwhelmed. It will take time, however, and time is of the essence, they say."

"How will you do this?" Melina asks, knowing she shouldn't ask. But if she can cure Jalyn... She has to know.

Izanami takes a step closer, tapping a perfectly painted nail against her lips. "I would need to inhabit a body, of course, and enter your strange mortal realm. From there, I can slowly guide her back to normality over the course of time."

Melina gulps, sweat trickling down the nape of her neck. "You want to possess me to do this?" The idea terrifies her, but her desire to save Jalyn burns strong inside her, a desperate feeling that makes her legs shake.

The demon chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down Melina's spine. "That was my hope," she admits. "But alas, your body is now protected by Faith. Two is company, but three is a crowd." Izanami laughs at her own joke, shaking her head in amusement. "However, here is your choice mortal: You can only save one of the two for whom you care for. Jalyn, the one who became tranquil to save you, or Wynne, the elderly mage past her prime. If you choose Jalyn, then I will take Wynne's body before the Pride demon possesses it, and we will rescue Jalyn together. If you choose Wynne, then Jalyn will turn into a Rage abomination when the demon takes her. The choice is yours, my mortal friend."

"Wh-what if I choose neither?"

"Inaction is a choice in itself, my dear. Choosing to do nothing dooms Jalyn as surely as if you had chosen Wynne."

Melina sits down on the bed with a heavy thump, heart pounding faster than it ever has beneath her breasts. Maker's breath, but how can she make such a choice? Her hands shake, folded in her lap, and she clenches them into fists until her knuckles turn white. She can't do this. It isn't her place to make such a choice. Surely, Jalyn wouldn't want to be saved at the expense of letting a demon roam free.

Flashes of memories come crashing through her mind. She can see Jalyn standing before her, brow furrowed in a frown. _Her hand darts out to wipe away Melina's tears from another nightmare. "W'ats this, shem? Ya cryin' again?" Her accent is still heavy, and her thin frame is smaller still from youth, not having yet hit puberty. "C'mere, then. I'll sing a song my ma use ta sing ta me."_ Her voice was always off key, but it was softer then, still holding the high pitched sound of a child's. Melina never understood the words, and Jalyn had admitted neither did she, but they were warm and brought them both comfort when they felt alone.

How can see leave Jalyn to become an abomination? The Spirit of Faith buzzes louder, but she can't tell if it's in agreement or a warning. Izanami sighs, eyes flashing dangerously. "Time is a-wasting, mortal. Make your choice."

Melina gets to her feet, tears flowing down her cheeks. She thinks of Wynne, of the gentle and wise guidance she's always provided. Wynne has always been like a mother to her, holding her close and protecting her when the chaotic emotions of Kinloch Hold overwhelmed her. Wynne understood the struggle of being an empath, and made her strong enough to complete her Harrowing.  _I'm so sorry._

"I choose... Jalyn," she whispers, pain shooting through her as she collapses to her knees.

"Now, now mortal. Do be careful, dear. A spirit lives within you. If you allow your emotions to take control, you could corrupt it. You wouldn't want to taint the poor thing, would you? If it becomes corrupted, so too, do you."

Melina takes a few deep breaths, pushing her emotions down below the surface. She closes her eyes, palms flat against the ground.  _I can't fail, I can't fail, I can't._

_My Creator, judge me whole: find me well within Your grace, touch me with fire that I be cleansed, tell me I have sung to Your approval. Please, Andraste, guide me to His ways, and forgive me my trespasses. I have sinned but still Your endless love I hold in my heart so that one day I may be pure again._

Her eyelids flutter open, breathes coming in and out in a slow, steadier rhythm. Gingerly, she rises to her feet, clutching her pendant of Andraste tight in her fist. The spirit within her hums quietly, a soft purring sound that shows it feels at peace, at least for the moment.

"We must hurry before it is too late, mortal. Come, take my hand. We will fight your Hunger demon first, then we shall take Wynne."

 

~*~*~

 

Melina blinks past the tears in her eyes as she watches Wynne lying on a small cot. A baby cries in the distance, wailing so loud Melina wishes she could help it. But it's just an illusion, brought on by the Pride demon that holds Wynne captive.

Wynne leans up on her elbows, grabbing a hold of figure that looks strangely like a younger version of the First Enchanter. "Where are they taking my child? Do I not even get to look upon his face before they whisk him away?

Impostor Irving pulls his arm out her grasp. "You decided to give the child up, as Chantry law dictates. If you regret your choice now, there is nothing to be done."

Wynne sticks out her chin, eyes flashing. "I regret nothing," she replies.

He raises an eyebrow out at her. "No? Not even your dalliance with the Knight-captain?"

Wynne narrows her eyes. "You promised to keep that a secret. If they knew, Greagoir would lose his position."

"Perhaps you should have thought of that before you slept with him," the creature impersonation Irving replies with a cold sneer. 

Melina's eyes widen with shock. "Th-This isn't real, is it? Wynne would never... ."

Izanami simply nods, tucking a strand of her hair behind a delicately curved ear. "It is, or at least as real as your Wynne remembers it. Time often colours these things, does it not?"

"I wouldn't know," Melina murmurs, still in shock over the revelation. 

"Now, gaze upon me one last time, mortal. The next time we speak, I will be inhabiting an old and withered body. How grand," Izanami replies, voice dripping with disdain.

She turns into a dark black cloud of smoke and wafts over toward Wynne. The demon slips inside her before Wynne can speak, but a look of sheer horror twists her face as Izanami takes hold.

Irving roars, the sound echoing in the room, as his body shifts, bones popping. Bony protrusions cover his body, and his skin turns a deep purple as he grows in size. "I will not allow this," it says with a growl, attacking.

Melina sends out a cone of cold toward the beast, freezing it in place while Izanami-Wynne attacks. The Pride demon is dead in what feels like a second, and Izanami stalks toward Melina. Wynne's eyes glow with a golden hue for a moment, before settling back into their normal hue.

"This body will have to do, aging as it is. Do not worry mortal, she knew not that it was you who betrayed her when I took her."

Somehow, these words bring Melina no comfort as she takes the demon's hand once again.

 

~*~*~

 

Jalyn stands motionless as a fiery Rage demon slinks toward her, the burning beast chuckling madly as it comes ever closer. Izanami smirks and the expression looks strange upon Wynne's face.

"Rage demons are so easily defeated for one of my power. This is no fun at all," she says with a sigh. With a quick flick of the wrist, she holds the demon still, frozen in place by some strange magic that makes Melina feel sick to her stomach. Izanami turns to her, eyebrow raised. "Come now, I only said I would help, not do all the work for you," she chides, wagging her finger much like Wynne. "Go on, attack, mortal."

Melina wipes away the tears pricking at the corner of her eyes before sending bolts of lightening toward the demon manifestation of rage. It shocks through the creature and a strange burning smell of sulphur and ash fills the air, making Melina gag as it coats the back of her throat.

Izanami rolls her eyes, a bored sigh escaping her lips. She snaps her fingers and a menacing hiss echos through the air. "What a silly mortal you are, attacking a thing made of fire with a spell made of heat." The air turns bitter cold as the rage demon turns to ice, drops of snow coating the entire area. The beast lets out one final roar before shattering into icy shards and Izanami lets out a frigid laugh. "There, isn't that much better? You have much to learn, mortal. Do not worry, I will share with you some of my knowledge as we travel the mortal realm together. And with no extra cost. Consider it a thank you for not revealing my existence to the companions who trusted you so."

Her words bite along Melina's skin, hissing cruelly in her heart. Shoulders sagging, she walks over to Jalyn and grabs her hands. "You are safe now, my friend. I'm so sorry I could not reach you sooner," she says, pulling her in for a tight hug.

Jalyn does not return the hug, arms limp at her side. "That was a most uncomfortable experience," she replies instead, voice still monotone. "It is good you came when you did."

Izanami joins them, fingers brushing against the mark that brands Jalyn's forehead. "What a hideous thing, and so unnecessary. You do know what this mark means, don't you child?" she asks, mimicking Wynne now that they're no longer alone.

Melina shakes her head, curls bouncing. "It's the symbol of the Chantry, I thought?"

"Ah, so it is. But you don't need a physical brand to make a mage tranquil. This is a mark of their power, their show of ownership of the mages, nothing more."  Her eyes flash with annoyance. "Now, sleep," she whispers, and Jalyn's form crumples to the ground before fading from view.

"What did you do?" Melina asks, voice raising higher as her eyes dart around, wildly searching for her friend.

Izanami grins, a small chuckle bubbling forth from her lips. "It is time for your friend to rest. I have returned a layer of her emotions to her, and if she sleeps for a time, it will be easier for her. You are an empath, are you not? Emotions come in layers, with different levels of intensity. There are softer emotions, such as indignation, pity, and amusement. Then stronger emotions, such as anger, love, hate, and shame. If returned all at once, they are suffocating to feel after being nothing for so long. I have given her back her amusement for now."

Melina chews her lip in thought, turning the demon's words over in her mind. "How will I explain this to the others? To Jowan and Morrigan and the templars, especially?"

"You need not worry, mortal," Izanami replies with a sigh. "When we meet the templars in the mortal realm, I will retreat within this shell. Wynne will seem more quiet than normal, but they will be none the wiser unless they are looking for it. As for your companions, I am now a wise, elder mage, am I not? I will explain that Jalyn's time in the Fade has cracked the magic that holds her tranquility. If you agree with my words, they will accept it and not think on it overmuch."

Melina nods reluctantly, a harsh weariness settling at the base of her spine.  _Maker, be my guide. Andraste, give me strength. Why could it not have been me instead of Jalyn back then?_ Surely, her friend would have been stronger than she against the lure of Izanami's promise.

 

~*~*~

 

Melina watches Daveth from a distance as he ducks and weaves through a crowd of imaginary people. A sly grin curls his lips, eyes flashing with glee. His finger slips inside a woman's pocket, grabbing a trinket as he slips through the shadows. He races away, evading the fake guards who chase after him with raised voices.

She follows him, Izanami at her side, as he slips over a pair of tall gates. "Where are we supposed to be now?" she asks.

"A place he calls Denerim," Izanami replies. "Can you guess the demon haunting him?"

She shakes her head, continuing to watch as he speeds through back alleyways. Beggars hold out their hands, pleading with dirt covered faces, but he ignores their plight. Instead, he escapes to a tiny hovel. He walks over to a slender woman with bright blonde hair and soft blue eyes, an easy grin of his face.

She smiles, and Melina can feel the malice in it. "Daveth, my love, well done," she says, pressing her lips against his in a kiss that makes Melina blush. "W'at 'ave you brought for our leader today?" 

Daveth grins, trailing his hands across her body and dangling the jeweled trinket in front of her face. "Think this will grant us some favour, pet?" he asks, chuckling as her eyes gleam. 

The demon girl giggles, a high-pitched sound that hurts Melina's ears. "Perfect," she squeals. "Now, we can get closer to the lout..."

"And slit his throat when he's least expectin' it," Daveth finishes, kissing the side of her neck. "Then, all his coin will be ours, Kalie, my pet."

Melina's eyes widen, jaw slack as she listens to recounting of the old memory. "Maker's breath, he was a thief and a murderer?"

Izanami shrugs, staring at her fingernails with a look of hauteur etched on her wrinkled face. It's disconcerting to see such a foreign expression on the face that once belonged to Wynne. "He was a thief, but remember, mortal, a demon is twisting the memory. What is true and what is new is bit more unclear," she replies.

"Ser Daveth," Melina calls out, stepping forward. "Stay away from that creature, it isn't who it appears to be," she warns.

"Foolish," Izanami mutters.

Daveth turns to her, face scrunched. "What's this then?"

The demon purrs, tracing a finger along his skin. "Who's yer friend, lover?"

He shrugs, licking his lips. "Dunno. Never seen her before, but she's cute, eh?" He winks over at her, flirting as easy as he breaths.

It pouts, turning Daveth's head back to look into its eyes. "We don't 'ave time fer games, Daveth. Don't ya want all that coin Tadeo has hidden away?"

Izanami chuckles, the sound slithering through the air. "Can you guess the name of the demon yet, child?'

Melina frowns, a deep crease forming between her brows. The Faith spirit flickers inside her, agitated. It whispers strange words she doesn't understand. "Quiet, I can't think," she mumbles, and the spirit quiets down to a low hum. "Thank you, I'm sorry," she adds. She stares at the demon, regarding it carefully as it plays with the trinket. "Lust?" she guesses, looking to Izanami for confirmation.

"Close," she replies, voice a soft purr. "Try again, mortal. There are many forms of demons and spirits, layers within layers of complex emotions and thoughts, each one breaking down into a deeper subset of the other."

Melina nods, chewing her lip again. "What's like lust?" She wonders the question aloud, more of a thought than a question she expects an answer to.

"Mmmm. When a dragon hoards its treasures in a pile, viciously attacking any who dare try to take its precious trinkets, what word would you use to describe its behaviour?"

Her eyes light with understanding. "Greed. It's a demon of Greed."

The demon's head snaps up, lips twisting into an ugly snarl. "How dare you speak that name," it says with a low growl.

It lunges toward her, fingers turning quickly into sharp, green claws. Its body elongates, towering above them, and as slim as Melina's staff. Bright emerald scales replace the pale flesh, glinting in the faded light of the hovel. Its eyes narrow into slits, glowing chartreuse orbs that hold so much rancor it makes Melina shiver. Its claws rake across her chest, a fiery pain that burns so bad it drops her to her knees.

Izanami clucks her tongue. "Now, now, we can't have that, now can we?" She raises her arms, sending a solid wall of wind toward the Greed demon at such a velocity that the creature falls back, landing on its tail.

Greed howls in pain, slithering along the ground with olive green slime dripping from its blackened fangs. "You cannot have him, I will see the mortal realm through him," it growls, mouth opening wide as it goes to clamp down on Melina's leg.

She kicks out, foot landing solidly on the demon's snout. She grabs her staff and wacks it over the head, jaw clenched. "No!" Melina's tone is harsher than its ever been as she sends out an arcane bolt through the palm of her hand toward the beast. "No more demons can have my friends, I won't allow it," she says, grabbing hold of its slimy body. She shoots out flames through her hands, burning her own flesh along with the demon.

It howls in pain as she sears away the scales, agony flooding her body as the smell of her own burning flesh clogs her nostrils. Izanami clucks her tongue as the beast finally dies. "That was foolish, mortal," she replies, but a hint of admiration colours her scolding words.

Melina pants, sweat pouring down her body as she struggles to heal her hands. Daveth stands above her, blinking rapidly. "Someone wanna tell me what just happened?" he asks, frowning.

Melina opens her mouth to reply but his form fades away, leaving only her and Izanami. She sighs, frustrated. "Why?" she asks, looking up Izanami, hands slowly healing as she speaks.

"They get in the way of my teaching," she replies simply. "Come, you have two more friends to free."

 

~*~*~

 

Maroth lies nude in a bed, body glistening in oil. Naked women and men surround him, wicked grins twisting their faces. Their stroke his limbs, tongues snaking out to trace slick patterns across his skin as he moans in pleasure. Melina's cheeks turn bright red and she looks away, unable to stand the images. "Maker's breath," she whispers. "I suppose this is Lust, then?"

Izanami nods, chuckling, "Lust can take many forms, but your friend desires pleasures of the flesh above worldly goods."

She covers her face in her hands. "I can't watch this," she whispers.

Maroth lets out another lewd moan. "Oiy, Melina," he says, and her head shoots up in shock at the sound of her name. "I was wonderin' when one of ya would show up here."

"You... know this isn't real?" she asks, surprised.

He nods, propping himself up on his elbows. "Aye, I know. But I thought I'd have a bit of fun before it ended," he admits, long hair falling free around his face. "This mean it time fer battle then? Never fought in the buff before."

Izanami chuckles. "It's the fade, child. Imagine you are clothed, and you will be," she says, voice perfectly imitating Wynne.

"Ah, ya've got the old biddy with ya then. Right. Let's get this over with, yeah?"

The naked people around him growl low in their throats, horns sprouting from their heads and skin turning various shades of purple. Maroth ducks and rolls, falling off the bed gracefully as he reaches for a spear. He spins it in his hands, blocking a blow from the nearest Desire demon. "Right then, time fer you lot to die, right?" He plunges the tip of the weapon into its heart as Melina casts shocks of lightening toward another.

Izanami calls up magic that resembles Wynne's and together the three defeat the demons. The beasts die, one after another, their amethyst-coloured blood staining the ever shifting ground.

Maroth hobbles over to her, still nude and erect. Melina keeps her gaze firmly locked with his eyes, refusing to acknowledge anything else. "Wait, w'ats this? Why am I fadi...." His voice drifts off as he vanishes, the same as Jalyn and Daveth but with more awareness than the others.

Izanami winks at her. "Now he's a clever one, isn't he? Too bad this body is so old, or he might be fun to have around in your mortal realm," she says with a chuckle.

"Ugh. Maker please don't bring up such horrifying thoughts," Melina whispers. "I used to find the Fade so comforting, you know. Now, its seems as terrifying as the templars always swore it was."

"The Fade is what you make of it whilst you are here. Your pure spirit kept it calm and gentle during your visits. Now, it twists to reflect those who are trapped here. Never fear, mortal, the next time you visit it will more than likely be clean again as your soul has yet to be corrupted."

Melina bows her head, pulse speeding up. "Truly? Because I feel more dirty now that I've met you than I ever have before." _Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond._ "Am I not maleficar now for having dealt with one such as you?" 

Izanami quirks an eyebrow at her, amusement ringing in her eyes. "Even those you call maleficar are not beyond redemption," she chides. "Your Faith is strong, mortal. Has it been shaken by our encounter? Do you no longer hold your precious Maker dear in your heart? Do you doubt his existence for what you have seen here?"

She shakes her head slowly. "No, I do not doubt the Maker's love. I know He is real as I know the sun sets at night and rises again in the morning. I feel His love, even now."

The demon snorts, a rude sound that punctures the air. "Then you shall be fine," she replies, voice dripping with disdain.

 

~*~*~

 

Alistair's nightmare is the one that surprises her the least. She arrives at the great stone fortress, body sapped of energy, and walks the long walk toward the doors. A blinding heat burns against the back her neck. She wonders where she is, and the Faith spirit supplies the name for her as a whisper in her mind.  _Weisshaupt_. 

The journey is long and by the end of it, her legs ache. Men and women dressed in the familiar silver and blue Grey Warden armour stand at the gate, weapons held in their hands. She curtsies, playing into the fantasy. "I am here to see Grey Warden Alistair, please," she asks, keeping her tone soft and polite.

They exchange glances before nodding, doors swinging open on their own. "You may enter, but do not disturb the wards," they warn in simultaneous monotone.

Melina bites her lip, nodding, and enters the darkly lit fortress. The heels of her boots click against the stone floor, candles flickering eerily as she goes. "Maker, this is the Grey Warden fortress? It's utterly terrifying. It's so cold and empty, is this how it truly looks?"

Izanami doesn't answer, just glides along next to her. A thick wave of desperation blankets over the room. The anguish weighs her body down, pulling her thoughts in a negative spiral.  _Give up. You've already failed. Just lie down on the ground and waste away. You're nothing, weak and incapable. Give up now and admit your defeat._

A hand connects with the back of her head, a sharp slap that sends a shock through her. "Stop that, fool. Despair lives here, and its wickedness grows deep," Izanami says, tone full of disgust. "Slimy little rodents," she mutters.

Melina glances at her, thoughts still heavy. "You speak as if you hate them. Are they not your brethren?"

Izanami curls her lip, eyes narrowed. "You have much to learn, mortal. Not all demons are alike, nor do we all claim kinship. Despair is a rotting thing, driving mortals to suicide and wretchedness. There is no gain to that, only loss."

She smiles, shaking her head. "So now you admit you're a demon?"

"Ha! Clever child. I am something more and something less; demon is as good a word as any. I offer choice, and choice can be interpreted in many ways."

"I suppose that makes sense," Melina admits. "But couldn't you offer your help without stipulation?"

Izanami snorts, a derisive sound. "Do I appear to be a spirit of Compassion to you? I do not exist to help, and I cannot do what is against my nature. Choice is not kind, nor is it easy. Choice is hard, but if you waver too long, you lose the opportunity to do anything at all. Any choice is better than no choice at all, is it not?"

Melina mulls over the words, not responding, but pondering whether her words sound like wisdom, or an excuse. She lets out a sudden gasp when she sees Alistair, huddled in a corner with tears streaming down his face. A broken corpse lies in front of him, a man with dark skin and a short beard, brown hair pulled into a ponytail. Blood coats his body, a dark red against the deep tone of his skin.

"Duncan, I failed you. I'm so sorry. I should have been there with you. It should be you fighting the Blight, not me. Oh Maker, I'm so sorry," Alistair whispers, sobs making his body shake.

Melina rushes over to him, his pain reaching out to her and making her heart clench in sympathy. "Warden Alistair, can you hear me?" She asks, kneeling down next to him.

He looks up at her, tear stained cheeks glistening. "It's hopeless, you know," he replies. "We'll never defeat the Blight on our own. Duncan was our leader. Without him, we'll never succeed in defeating the archdemon."

She cups his face, brows puckered. "That isn't true, Alistair," she whispers, wiping away his tears with the pad of her thumb. "You can't lose faith, not now. You are strong and brave. I believe in you."

He sniffs, shaking his head. "I'm nothing compared to Duncan," he says morosely.

Izanami steps forward, rolling her eyes. "Despair cannot stand against Faith," she says, whispering in Melina's ear. "Hope is its purer, uncorrupted form, and Hope is fueled by Faith."

Melina draws up her mana, calling upon the Faith spirit. She coaxes its warmth to spread, encasing herself and Alistair in a single golden hue. "You yet live, Alistair. The Maker has a plan for you, or else you would not be here. You must be strong, and believe in Him. Please, don't give up. We need you. _I_ need you. You're the only one with templar powers, the only one who can truly protect the mages you travel with. I beg of you, don't give in to Despair."

Alistair looks at her with wide eyes, as if this is the first time he is truly seeing her. "Maker forgive me, Mi'lady. I have disappointed you," he says, placing his hand atop hers. "Please, can you forgive me?"

She smiles, leaning her forehead against his with a sigh of relief. "There is nothing to forgive, dear Alistair. I didn't know this Duncan, but your grief is strong, and understandable. It makes sense this is the thought Despair preys upon."

He chuckles, his breath tickling her cheek. "You are sent by the Maker Himself, surely, Mi'lady."

"I am no noble, please call me Melina," she replies, still holding his face in her hand.

Alistair closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before replying. "You seem awfully noble to me, Miss Melina, high station or not."

Her cheeks turn bright red at his words. She opens her mouth to reply when his body slips from her grasp, fading from view. She looks up at Izanami, who smirks down at her.

"How very sweet," she quips dryly. "I do not believe I have ever seen Despair defeated by mere words before, but perhaps there is more to you than I once believed. Come now, Sloth awaits us." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Just your friendly note from the writer, to help clarify headcanon from canon again. 
> 
> air thief- oxygen thief- elderly person ;) Found it while researching cockney slang
> 
> We know little of exactly which spirits are turned to which demons, so this is mostly guess work on my part and may be invalidated by later lore.
> 
> I was reading up on the Amell codex ages ago and Revka, an Amell's mother, is said to have had many children- all with magical talent who were taken to various circles across Thedas. There is some slight contradicting information that has been recently revealed in the World of Thedas volume 2, however. 
> 
> On one hand, the World of Thedas volume two states "Sometime after the death of her father, Revka vanished without a trace. Shortly after Revka's disappearance, her husband took their four remaining children and left Kirkwall to escape the Amell family's many problems."
> 
> Contradictory, in DAII if you ask Leandra about the Amell family "She will reveal that Revka had multiple children, and that all were proven to have magical talent, and taken by the Chantry to separate Circles in Thedas."
> 
> I'm using that second bit and first bit and making it canon for this story. Melina has several siblings, and is the middle child among the five with two older siblings and two younger. The eldest is a boy, and is the brother Melina mentions. She's never met or heard of the two younger ones, having been taken to Kinloch Hold by that time, and only has very faint memories of the others. - http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Revka_Amell
> 
> Also, even if it isn't clear, Melina is a plus size girl. I believe that the world of Thedas should have a diverse range of body shapes and sizes. I understand the mechanics limiting such for in-game, but in my fics you'll see a wider range. Warriors and rogues have to be a bit slimmer just because of the physical activities they do, but some of my mages and my OCs that aren't fighters (noble men and women, some commoners, etc) will be plus sized people, without the modern day stigma attached. After all, in medieval times, which resembles Thedas in some aspects, plus sized women were greatly sought after. 
> 
> Melina is about the same weight as Emme, as seen here: https://www.google.com/search?q=Emme&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwityIPsrq3NAhVOVWMKHX92DPkQ_AUICCgB&biw=1093&bih=479#imgrc=ycqk_TFRhlnbPM%3A 
> 
> OR Tara Lynn as seen here: https://www.google.com/search?q=Tara+Lynn&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiv3-jcr63NAhVS5mMKHaKjCUEQ_AUICCgB&biw=1093&bih=479#imgrc=KMggs0AUnAbVaM%3A 
> 
> but with a slightly smaller chest size. Jalyn, in contrast, is pretty thin and bony, spindly even, like how Elphaba is described in the Wicked book version (that was my inspiration for her, after all).


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I altered Sloth's appearance a bit. He has too many forms in-game that just don't line up with what else we know. First, in the human realm, he's a basic abomination. Then, in the Fade, he takes the form of all the demons we fought on the various islands. Which no other demon does. So, I created something that was a mix between his Real World form and the Sloth demon bear creature we see in the Magi opening. It's my canon, and I'm stickin' to it. haha ;)
> 
> Also, slightly NSFWish at the end. Blame Maroth. He's a lustful bastard. lol

The ground shifts beneath his feet, morphing from grass to stone to bloodstained wood in seconds. It makes him dizzy, and Maroth's stomach clenches as nausea rolls through him. Flashes of old memories flicker in his mind. He can see his wife, her pale blonde hair coloured red from her own blood, on Vaughan's floor. His daughter, his little Lala, crying as he gave her away to the Dalish. Pain rips at his heart and his knees shake, threatening to give way and drop him to the ever-changing ground.

A hand rests on his shoulder, soft and cool, and a flood of serenity flows through his mind. He looks up to see Melina's large, golden eyes; a gentle smile curving the lips on her rounded face. "Are you alright, Ser Tabris?" she asks, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

"Eh, I'll be better once we leave this friggin' place. Good ta see yer back again, though," he replies, offering her a grin.

He casts his eyes around the area of the Fade they're standing in now, sending thanks to the Maker when he sees his cousin sitting nearby. Her eyes are closed and she's encased in a iridescent bubble, eyelids flickering gently. "Wa't's that?" he asks, nodding toward Jalyn.

Melina follows his gaze, frowning slightly. She looks toward the old woman, frown deepening, before replying. "It's a shield, to keep her protected from the fight. Sloth will be here soon, and she won't be able to fight against such a powerful demon."

Maroth quirks an eyebrow at her. "Sloth, eh? More demons ta fight? W'at fun," he replies. "Well, we ain't fighting alone, right? Where's the other blokes?" His gaze roams around, searching for signs of Alistair and Daveth.

"They will be here soon, child," Wynne replies, waving her staff. "It is difficult to draw us all here at once. Sloth wants to keep us separated, pluck out our nightmares and defeat us one by one. He underestimated us, however."

Maroth just grunts, running a hand through his hair. "Could use with a weapon, right? 'Course, I could jus' punch the bugger. Probably won't like it, but I can do it, if ya want."

Melina giggles, shaking her head. "Ah, you don't have to do that, Ser-"

"I ain't a Ser, girl. I'm an elf, and a thief. Call me Maroth, Tabris, or a son of a bitch, jus' stop callin' me friggin' Ser. I ain't no bleedin' noble bastard." His tone is harsh, and he knows it, but he doesn't care. Every time she calls him "Ser" it makes his skin crawl.

Melina's cheeks turn bright red and she nods quickly. "I- I'm sorry. Bu-but you don't have to punch the demon, S- Maroth. Just think of whatever weapon you want, and it will come to you. In the Fade, our Will can manifest whatever we need."

Maroth snorts, glancing over at the elder mage. "Yeah, yer Wynne said as much before. Didn't work then, neither, an' I still fought naked. Load of fun that was, with my willy hangin' out," he grumbles.

"I-I, uh, I," Melina stammers, her entire face red as an apple. "I mean, uh..."

He shakes his head, lips quirking into a smirk as Daveth starts to form nearby. "W'at, ya never seen one before?" Maroth asks, winking suggestively at her.

Daveth looks around, brows furrowed. "Seen what? What's this? What's going on? Where am I now?"

Melina turns to him, still blushing scarlet and refusing to look at Maroth. "You're in the Fade, Warden Daveth," she whispers.

Wynne nudges his shoulder, eyes shining with suppressed laughter. "Here, boy. You prefer handling a spear, right?"

Maroth's eyes widen as he takes the weapon. "I can't tell if yer makin' a joke or not," he replies. "But however ya mean that, it's true enough."

He can see Melina's ears turning as red as her face. Daveth rolls his eyes, letting out a rude snort. "Now you're just trying to embarrass the poor girl," he mutters. "Right, someone want ta get me a bow and maybe an endless supply of arrows?"

Alistair forms next, slowly fading into view. His eyes light up a touch when he sees Melina, and his smile is genuine, if small. "Mi'lady, it's good to see you again. Let's get this over with and leave this place," he says, bringing a sword and shield to his hands. "We have darkspawn to kill back in the real world, and I won't let Duncan die in vain."

Melina curtsies toward him, returning the smile. "It's a relief to see you, as well, Alistair. We need a templar trained warrior at our side. Sloth is a powerful demon, and he might not be all we face."

Wynne narrows her eyes, the light blue orbs flashing specks of gold. "I don't sense any other demons nearby, child," she says, tilting her chin high. "Do you?"

Melina bows her head, smile slipping. "No, Senior Enchanter," she mumbles, staring at her feet.

"Shite, let's get this over with then. I friggin' hate the fade, though them demons do have a way with their hands," Maroth says, grinning suggestively at Melina.

Her eyes widen as she comprehends what he means. "Maker's breath! You mustn't joke about such things. They could have turned you into an abomination," she whispers furiously.

"Well, I've been called worse, poppet. Right so-" He stops mid-sentence as a large grotesque creature forms in front of them. Its flesh is twisted around its mouth and nose, eyes lopsided and glowing red. Tiny spikes stick out from over his mutilated and scarred body, each one dripping some strange green substance that reeks of rotting flesh. 

Lethargy washes over him, draining his energy. It would feel so good to sleep, to lay down and rest his eyes for a moment. The others don't need him. He can rest, just for a second, and then he'll join the fight. He yawns, knees bending on their own accord to kneel down on the ground. 

A harsh shock hits him, making his skin prickle with pain like lightening brushing against his skin. He looks over at Alistair, the man's sword and shield held at the ready, and he seems to be emitting a soft glow. Maroth frowns, confused, before he remembers the Warden being templar trained. He brings his attention back to Sloth as the demon lets out a low chuckle, wondering if that's what a templar's magic feels like.

"Oh, the almost-templar has some smite in him, does he? How ungrateful. I'm just trying to help you. Aren't you tired of all this fighting?" it whispers, the words weaving like thick tendrils through Maroth's mind.

Wynne waves her staff, sending a bolt of purple fire toward the creature. "You won't take these minds so easily, Sloth," she says, lips turned down in determination, pulling the wrinkles of her face taunt.

The demon growls, the sound raising the hairs on the back of Maroth's neck. "You! I will not be defeated by  _you_ ," it roars, leaping toward the old woman.

Maroth rushes forward, piercing its mutated flesh with his spear. An arrow buzzes by his ear, landing in the creature's thick, meaty flesh. It growls, sending fiery tendrils through Maroth's body as he he wrenches his spear back. He uses the well-balanced weapon to block the blow of the demon's claws, gritting his teeth as he pushes back.

"Ssssleep, little thief, sleep," it whispers, bearing down on Maroth with its mind. "You want to sleep. If you resssst, you can see Nesiara again."

Maroth frowns as a wave as soothing magic washes over and through him, something he's come to recognize as Melina's magic. "I ain't bendin' ta yer will, beasty. Ta the void with yer false promises," he replies, ducking down to the left and spinning his spear in his hands to puncture the demon in the back.

He can see Melina out of the corner of his eye, lips whispering a spell, her brow knitted in concentration as she moves her hands in an odd shape through the air. A strange pattern forms on the ground, complex symbols he doesn't recognize. The demon glides across it, reaching for Maroth's neck, and freezes, teeth barred in a snarl. Maroth pauses, brow furrowed in confusion as he tries to figure out what's going on.

Wynne shouts out, her voice wavering only slightly. "It's a paralyzing glyph, boy, keep fighting!"

Alistair bellows loudly from the other side of the demon, ramming his shield into the beast's flank. A small shock wave rolls outward from the templar-warden, barely brushing against Maroth. It feels like a thousand ants crawling across his skin, though, and he shivers as he takes his spear and jams it into Sloth's side.

"Jus' friggin' die already. Bloody shite," he says with a growl as dark purple slime oozes from the beast, coating his skin and burning like acid.

Melina's healing magic wafts over him, pushing back the fiery pain shooting through his hands.  _Thank the friggin' Maker for Healers._  More arrows, these ones lit by deep orange flames, fly through the air to penetrate the warped flesh of the demon, who roars out in pain. Maroth fights against the weariness flowing through his veins as Alistair wrenches his sword into Sloth's neck. The elf takes his spear and pushes it through the thickest part of the beast's flesh, focusing his mind on staying on awake, and twists the weapon as more of the strange purple slime coats his skin.

This time, it doesn't burn as the Fade begins to  disappear. He feels himself falling, slipping away, a pounding ache forming in his head. He closes his eyes, heart thundering in his chest. Maroth feels suspended in air for a moment, trapped in some sort of place that is neither the Fade nor Thedas, before crashing back into his physical body with a strange thud. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly, and groans as pain rips its way through his head.

Gingerly, he sits up, casting his eyes around the small circular room. More piles of strange, oddly pink flesh twists around the stone columns, spiking up in the center of the room in menacing tendrils. He shivers; the weird substance makes him nauseous. Out of the corner of his eye he can see his other companions waking up as well, and he breathes a small sigh of relief that he isn't alone.

"How do we know this isn't another trick? Could we still be in the Fade, this place part of it?" Daveth asks, nose twitching.

Maroth frowns as he pushes himself to his feet. "Eh, that's a friggin' wonderful thought, Warden. Just w'at we all needed; paranoid shite. Thanks," he mutters, casting his eyes around the room again, roaming his hands over his body as if to make sure he was really real this time. "Friggin' shite, I hate this place. Worst than the friggin' werewolves, it is."

Melina shakes her head, exchanging a look with Wynne that he can't read. "You needn't worry, Ser Warden. This is real, I can tell," she says, voice soft. 

Wynne nods her head in agreement, reaching for her staff with a small smile. "This is certainly not the Fade, children, that is obvious enough."

"Right, creepy. Feels like we're awake to me," Alistair replies, looking at Wynne strangely for a moment before shaking his head. "For a minute there.... Never mind. Let's go find this Uldred fellow, and finish this. You feel that? It's actually colder up here." He gives an exaggerated shiver, which makes Melina giggle.

"It's the magic, the air is thick with maleficarum," Wynne replies. The candlelight catchers a gleam in her eyes, and Maroth looks away.

"Right then, let's go. Up we go, right?" he mutters. He glances over at Jalyn, her expression blank. "Yer alright, cousin? It's bloody cold enough to chip yer tooth on pea soup."

Her lips curve into a small smile and she chuckles, eyes lighting up briefly before returning to the bland, empty look of before. "That was... amusing," she replies.

Maroth's jaw hangs open as he stares at her in shock, heart racing at double the speed. It's been so long since he's heard that sound, and after seeing her again he was convinced he'd never hear it again. 

Alistair clears his throat, shifting from one foot to the other. "That, uh, isn't supposed to happen, right? I mean, she's  _tranquil._ Tranquil aren't supposed to find things funny, are they?"

Tears well up in Melina's eyes as she wraps her arms around Jalyn's bony frame. Jalyn doesn't return the hug, standing their stock still as Melina cries, unable to respond.

"It's from her time in the Fade," Wynne replies, peering closer at Jalyn's face. "She must have been touched by a benevolent fade spirit. The tranquility might not stick, now, or it might just be a brief moment of returned emotions. We'll have to wait and see. One thing I can promise you is that if the templars find out, they'll kill her. They won't risk another Rite of Tranquility on her."

Melina pulls back from the embrace, cheeks wet with tears. "No, they wouldn't-"

Wynne shakes her head, pity filling her eyes. "You think they wouldn't, girl? Look at that brand on her forehead and really think about it for a minute."

"I won't let them," Maroth says, gripping his spear tightly in his fist. "I'll fight every last one of 'em, if I have ta."

Alistair exchanges a glance with Daveth before sighing. "There isn't really much we can do, I'm sorry," he says, shaking his blonde head.

Melina turns to him, grabbing a hold of his armour, brow furrowed. "Please, can't you recruit her into the Wardens? She'll be safe then, right? Jalyn doesn't deserve to die, please," she begs, voice wavering.

Alistair gently pries her fingers loose, taking a step backward. "A tranquil? In the Wardens? What if she isn't cured, what help would she be?" he asks, tone gentle despite his words.

"Well, we could use an archivist and enchanter, yeah? I mean, them tranquil are supposed to be good with enchantments, right?" Daveth asks, winking at Melina.

Alistair's eyes widen a bit. "I suppose that's true..."

Maroth grunts, running his fingers through his tangled hair. The tips of his nails catch on the mangled strands, and he frowns. "Yer serious, yeah? She can be a Warden an' be safe?"

"Yep," Daveth replies. "We'll make it formal in front of that Knight-commander fella later. We can conscript her, if we need to."

Wynne snorts, nodding toward Melina. "See, child? You have nothing to fear," she soothes.

"Right, we're recruiting a tranquil now, who might go insane later. And I thought we were all full up on crazy ideas." Alistair lets out a slow sigh, shaking his head. "Well, let's get a move on then."

Maroth follows close behind Melina and and Alistair, Daveth at his side and Wynne and Jalyn taking up the rear. The air seems to grow thicker, and colder still, the farther up they go. Maroth wraps his cloak tight around him, blowing on his hands to bring some heat to them. He misses a pot of Nessy's rabbit stew right now, the way the delicious broth would warm up his entire body as he ate it.

As they continue to fight abominations and blood mages, Maroth wonders how many of them were friends of his cousin, or Melina. Did any of them mean anything special to them? Or were they just all trapped together in this miserable place, forced to coexist but not forming any bonds?

Each time he starts to feel tired, Melina sends him a little spell to keep him moving, rejuvenating his energy. He's not sure they'd have made it this far without her constant healing magic, her bright energy filling up each room despite the darkness and tainted magic.  _She's stronger than she looks_ , he thinks to himself with a chuckle. 

The door to the last room creaks open and Melina lets out a loud gasp. "Maker, oh, Ser Cullen!" She rushes forward, and he can tell she's worried about whatever she sees.

He steps into the room, and his eyes widen in horror as he looks around the room. Templars lie scattered and dead, bodies mutilated beyond recognition. One lone templar kneels on the ground, encased in a strange bubble that reminds him of the one Jalyn had been encased in during their time in the Fade. Jagged wounds run across his bare chest, and one shoulder looks as if it has been dislocated. 

"I will not break," the man Melina had called Cullen says with a growl, snapping his head up to stare at them. "Begone, demon."

Melina steps forward, tears in her eyes. "Ser Cullen, don't you recognize me?"

He growls, rushing to his feet and slamming his fists against the barrier. "Recognize you? Of course I know who you pretend to be, demon. You taunt me with the thing I've always desired, my ill-advised infatuation. A stolen kiss I never should have had, feelings that are now dead from endless torture. Kill me now, and be done with it! I will not break, no matter how long you tempt me with her beauty."

Melina's cheeks turn bright red, and Maroth raises a brow. "Ah, so you _do_ know w'at one is," he murmurs, causing her blush to deepen.

"Not now, you twit," Daveth says, shaking his head.

Melina ignored them both, stepping forward towards Cullen. She places a hand against the barrier and then lets out a surprised yelp. "Maker, that hurt," she whispers.

Cullen frowns, giving a small shake of his head. "What? But that always works, you press against the barrier and slip through, tempting me with your breath against my skin and false promises in my ear. You- You can't be real," he says, voice low.

Alistair joins Melina's side, pressing a hand against her back. "We are real, Ser Knight. We've come to rescue you, and the others trapped here."

The templar's eyes narrow, teeth barred in a snarl. "Rescue the others? You mean the mages? They can't be helped. You need to kill them all, purge this place from their madness. There's no way of telling how many have turned, how many are abominations, hiding in plain sight."

"You can't mean that, Cullen," Melina whispers. "You said you wanted to protect the mages."

"I was wrong. My duty is to protect the rest of Thedas from your wickedness," he replies, voice cold.

Maroth can see Melina's legs shaking as she swallows back her tears. "Do you think I'm wicked, Cullen?"

He nods, blood dripping from his lip. "All mages are corrupt. I never should have told you otherwise."

Wynne tucks a strand of her grey hair behind one ear. "You shouldn't say such cruel things to her," she says, the corners of her lips tucked down in a frown.

Melina shakes her head, looking down at her feet. "It doesn't matter. He's right." She looks up, meeting Alistair's eyes. "We have to go defeat Uldred, before it's too late," she whispers.

Alistair places his hand atop her head, ruffling her thick white-blonde curls. "Blast it. Right, let's go. Do you get the feeling things are just getting worse as we go up?"

Daveth snorts, walking toward the stairs that lead up to the top of the tower. "So long as there isn't a friggin' ogre up here, I'll consider it a decent day."

 

~*~*~

 

Maroth watches in horror as the mage previously known as Uldred shifts, body stretching and turning purple. Strange ridges form across his skin, two misshapen horns forming on his skull as his eyes glow red. He towers above them, his chuckle sending shivers down Maroth's spine.

"You've got to be kiddin' me," Daveth whispers next to him, knocking an arrow. "Might as well be a blasted ogre."

Maroth chuckles as he stands in front of the archer, shaking his head ruefully. He's never seen an ogre before, but if they look anything like this, he's glad he hasn't had to face one.

Yet. Maker knows what travelling with a bunch of Grey Wardens will bring him, he figures. Mages scream out around them, bodies trapped in opalescent prisons. Wynne mutters something in a strange language under her breath, waving her staff toward the trapped mages. The barriers burst in a scattered spray of luminescence. Uldred, or whatever he is now, growls, slamming his fists on the ground. "They belong to _me_ ," he shouts as Maroth and the rest of his companions go flying backward. 

His body smacks against the stone, head connecting with a sickening thud. Stars burst across his vision as he stares up at the circular ceiling. He wonders, for a moment, if this is how he's going to die. Trapped in a tower full of blood mages, demons, and abominations. At least he won't die alone, he figures, struggling to get to his feet. And he won't die without a fight either.

Maroth limps forward, pain shooting from his ankle and up his leg, eyes casting around the room, searching for Melina. He sees her, on the ground, blood pooling around her head and staining her hair. She isn't moving and Maroth feels his heart stop beating for a moment in fear. He sends a prayer to the Maker and Andraste that she isn't dead, just unconscious, and looks for Wynne.

He finds her, casting spells rapid fire toward the beast that once was Uldred. "I need some of yer healin'," he shouts across the battle field.

She frowns, but doesn't respond, and he wonders if she didn't hear him or if she's ignoring him. Uldred-the-demon reaches down, grabbing Daveth in his large, grotesque hand. His arm reaches back as if he's about to slam the archer on the ground. Daveth's scream pierces the air, full of unadulterated terror. Maroth takes his spear and throws it toward the demon, grinning in satisfaction as it punctures its eye.

The demon growls, dropping Daveth and reaching for the spear. Wynne casts a spell the slows the Warden's descent, but he still hits the ground with a terrible crash. Maroth winces in sympathy, but is relieved to see him get to his feet, limping away from the demon's reach.

Daveth grabs his bow from the ground and lets out a stream of colourful curses when he sees the broken bowstring. "Fuckin' shite, titless bastard fuckin' cockwomble piece of motherless cockstorm, this was my best friggin' bow!"

Maroth snorts, glad to see the man hasn't lost his sense of humour. He looks at his hands, realizing he, too, has lost his weapon. "Frig," he mutters. He looks around, praying he finds a dagger or something, while Alistair and Wynne fight the beast alone.

He rushes over to Melina, despite the pain shooting up his leg. He slips in the blood as he grabs her staff. "Maroth, buddy, yer a friggin' nutter," he mutters to himself before charging the demon.

He wacks the demon in the knees, slamming the staff so hard that it splinters, cracking down the center. The demon lets out a menacing laugh that shakes the ground. "Shite," Maroth whispers as he watches the demon's hand reaching for him.

Daveth slams into him, knocking them both out of the way as they fall to the ground. "Are you insane?" he shouts, his breath blowing against Maroth's cheek.

"Ya don't need ta shout, I'm right friggin' here," Maroth retorts, rolling them over and away from the demon's foot as it stomps the ground again.

Daveth pushes against his chest, brown eyes filled with annoyance. "Well, next time don't try to hit a demon with a friggin' stick," he grumbles as Maroth stands up.

"Eh, ya probably have a point there," Maroth replies, helping Daveth to his feet. "W'at else was I goin' ta hit him with, though? My damn spear is in his eye."

Daveth hands him one of his daggers, a wry grin twisting his lips. "We need to buy you more weapons, my friend," he quips, before turning back to face the demon. "Fightin' an ogrish demon with one dagger? I can think of better ideas. Ah well, for the Grey Wardens!"

He rushes toward the beast, ducking under its hand, and stabs him in the ankle. Dark red blood pours from the wound and the demon stumbles as Alistair slams his shield into the same leg. Maroth looks around before slipping in between its legs, wincing from the sprain, stabbing at the other ankle.

The beast comes crashing down to its knees, making the ground vibrate as Wynne casts a strange prison around it, holding it in place. Weird sparkling pearls flow around the barrier, and looking at them hurts Maroth's eyes as he shakes his head, using the dagger to stab the demon.

He holds back a laugh as he realizes he's stabbing the demon right in the arse, which is now at his level. He takes the dagger and yanks it across the demon's left arse cheek, laughter finally escaping his lips as it howls, falling forward and pounding its fists into the ground.

Daveth rolls his eyes as he runs around to the front of the demon, reaching for it's throat with his short dagger. The demon snarls, swiping him out of the way. As Daveth flies through the air, landing against the far wall, Alistair sneaks forward and uses his longsword to stab the creature in the throat, tearing through the thick, bony flesh.

As it falls face first in a pile of its own blood, Maroth lets out a cheer. "Ha! Take that ya plug ugly arse!"

He limps over to Daveth, kneeling down to meet the man's eyes. Daveth groans, wincing as he touches the back of his head. His hand comes away with bright red blood. 

Maroth shakes his head. "That's goin ta be a right shitty headache come the mornin'," he says.

"You're such an arse," Daveth grunts. "You goin' to help a friend to his feet, or just make bad jokes?"

He chuckles, getting up and reaching a hand down. "I can't do both?"

"Arse," Daveth mutters, grabbing his hand and smiling, despite the pain he must be feeling. 

"Melina? Mi'lady, are you alright?" Maroth turns as he hears Alistair's voice rising in concern. Maroth's heart speeds up, jumping into his throat, as the other Warden, touches the side of her neck, probably searching for a pulse. 

Alistair frowns. "I can't find her pulse. Maker, please, she can't die now," he whispers as the other two draw near.

Wynne hobbles over, using her staff as a walking stick, face pale with exhaustion. "She's not dead, give her a moment to... heal herself," she says, brows knitted in concentration.

Maroth looks at her curiously. "Ain't ya one of them healers, too?" he asks.

"I... am, but I am also old and tired and I have no mana left to heal her with," she replies, looking away. "Think no more of it."

Maroth turns away, looking back at Melina. Suddenly, her lips part as she intakes a small breath of air. Her eyelids flutter open, the colour slowing returning to her cheeks.

"Thank the Maker, I thought you were dead," Alistair whispers vehemently. "You had me worried for a second there."

Melina sits up, frowning as she looks around the room. "I- You had to fight the battle without me." She bows her head, hands shaking in her lap. "I failed you."

Maroth grunts, using his sore ankle to poke her in the foot. "Eh, enough of that. We wouldn't have made it out of that blasted Fade shite if not fer ya, right? It's not like ya tried to get knocked out, an' Uldred's dead now. We're all a little worse fer wear, an' I think we all need some rest an'  hot friggin' meal."

Alistair nods his agreement. "He's right. Come on, Melina, let's go make sure that Cullen fellow is all right."

"Wait, Irving!" Melina exclaims, getting to her feet with a frown. 

"I'm over here, child," a gravelly voice says.

Maroth turns around, eyebrows raised in amazement as he notices a very old mage surrounded by a few others, frightened expressions twisting the younger ones' faces. "Well, Andraste's arse, this lot survived, yeah?"

Alistair grins, looking over at them. "A demonic invasion thwarted, a tower full of mage allies safely rescued. We do good work," he adds.

"Mels? Is that really you?"

A wide grin splits across Melina's face as a flash of recognition lights up her eyes. "Maker's breath, Niall! Oh, thank the Maker you yet live," she whispers fiercely. 

The mage called Niall shakes his head, a look of wonderment on his face. "I thought for sure you died at Ostagar. Never in all my life did I think you'd be the one to save us, yet here you are. I am glad to see you, Mels. You're a sight for sore eyes."

Irving grumbles, beard twitching. "One of you young lads will have to help this old man down the stairs. Cursed tower," he mumbles. He glances toward Wynne, nodding in her direction. "It's good to see you here, Wynne. I'm not surprised at all to see you were the one to rescue us."

Maroth snorts at the old man. "Yer old biddy didn't do that much," he mutters. 

Wynne scoffs at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Don't think I won't beat you with my cane, young man." She turns to Irving, smiling. "But he's right, Irving. I wasn't alone. Without the Grey Wardens and their friend, I wouldn't be standing here right now."

"Melina helped too," Daveth adds. "She rescued us in the Fade."

Melina flinches, waving her hands. "Oh no, I didn't really do anything good," she replies. 

"Don't sell yourself so short," Daveth says, walking over to Irving. "You needed an arm, old man?"

Irving frowns, but grabs a hold of Daveth's arms. Maroth shakes his head, following the two with a chuckle. He's eager to see Jalyn again, having left her down in barrier of Wynne's creation with Cullen. The barrier was to protect her in case the tortured templar decided to kill her once he became freed.

 

~*~*~

 

"You're recruiting a tranquil into the ranks of the Wardens? Don't you have enough apostates running around with you?" The Knight-commander glares at them, eyes narrowed and voice laden with sarcasm.

Alistair shrugs. "Well, if we already have so many, what's one more, right?"

"Your glibness is not helping," Greagoir retorts.

Wynne steps forward, biting her lip before saying anything. "I will accompany the Grey Wardens, Greagoir, and make sure that they are doing the right thing."

Greagoir frowns, lips twisting down. "I do trust you, Wynne, but you are but one mage." He turns to Cullen, letting out a slow sigh. "You, Cullen. You will accompany them as well. Report back if anything... inappropriate happens."

Cullen snaps to attention, throwing a salute toward his commander. "Yes, Ser. I still say we should annul the circle; we can't be sure these mages aren't possessed, Ser."

"I trust in Irving's word, Cullen," is his weary reply. "That is enough."

Maroth takes a deep breath, looking between them. "Are ya sure this one is up ta it?" he asks, doubtful. "He seemed pretty... off his nutter, yeah? Back in that cage?"

Greagoir nods his head firmly. "He's a templar, and a strong one. He will be fine."

Melina stares down at her boots for a moment before taking a deep breath. "Ser Cullen is a good man, and a fine templar. We will do well to have him at our side," she whispers, meeting the templar's gaze.

Cullen frowns, eyes narrowed. "I will do my best to protect Ferelden from your magic," is his curt reply.

"Thank you, Ser," she says, curtsying low. 

Maroth exchanges a glance with Daveth, before rolling his eyes. "Oh this looks ta be loads of fun. We're jus' pilin' on the crazy now, ain't we? Right, bloody shite."

The trip back across the lake feels slower than the trip toward the circle had. The tension is thick in the air, a heavy woolen blanket draped across their shoulders. Maroth sits next to his cousin in the middle, with Cullen in the front glaring at them all. His silver armour catches the reflecting light of the sun, blinding Maroth's vision if he stares too closely. 

The others are waiting at the shoreline, a gentle breeze blowing their hair. Zevran is sharpening one of his daggers, the wicked looking blade curved and glittering in the light. Morrigan stands a bit away from the others, a bored expression on her pretty face. Leliana and Jowan have mirrored expressions of worry, however; their brows furrowed and bodies shifting from one foot to the other as the little boat approaches.

"Oh, by the Maker's blessing, you've finally returned," Leliana exclaims, her short red hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. The braid falls free, resting against her pink cheeks, and her Orlesian accent is heavy. 

Daveth greets her first, grabbing her hand and laying a kiss across it. "'Course we have, with such a beautiful woman waitin' for us," he replies, making the Sister blush.

Maroth rolls his eyes as he helps his cousin from the boat. "Layin' it on a bit thick, are we, friend?" he says, chuckling a little.

"Ja- Jalyn? Maker, I-" Maroth turns to see Jowan staring, mouth agape, at Jalyn. The mage rushes forward, grabbing her hands in his.

"Oh, love, I don't know what you're doing here, but Maker I am glad to see you," he says, grey eyes filling up with unshed tears.

Maroth scowls, staring at the mousy haired man more closely. "Love? W'at's this?"

Jowan's cheeks turn bright red, but he doesn't take his eyes off Jalyn. "We were, uh, that is..."

Melina has an angry expression of her face as she steps off the boat, moving toward them and grabbing Jowan's wrist. "They were lovers," she hisses furiously. "And it's his fault Jalyn is tranquil. He's the blood mage," she continues. Dane growls low in his throat, hackles raised as he joins his Mistress' side.

Cullen draws his sword, placing it at Jowan's throat with a bloodthirsty expression. "I always knew there was something wrong about you, blood mage," he says.

Jowan's eyes widen, full of palpable fear. "I only dabbled!" he exclaims, and Maroth groans loudly in response. "I gave it up, I swear!"

"Great, just what we needed. A blood mage," Alistair drawls, shaking his head. "Stand down, Ser Cullen. He's not used blood magic so far, despite what we've encountered."

Cullen growls low in his throat, a deep, gut wrenching sound. "I will not allow this blood mage to go free!"

"We will keep an eye on him, right? But we're not killin' someone who's fought at our side since Ostagar," Daveth adds, pointing his dagger at Cullen. "You heard the senior Warden: stand down, Ser Knight."

"Please don't call me the senior Warden," Alistair grumbles. 

Leliana steps forward, brows crinkled in concern. "He wishes to redeem himself, everyone deserves that chance," she adds.

Maroth looks between them all, amazed at how things have gone in less than five minutes. "Bloody void, we've got friggin' darkspawn ta kill, an' we're just standin' around with our thumbs up our arses, pointing swords at each other."

Jalyn giggles, amusement flashing in her eyes before her expression returns to the blank look of the Tranquil. Everyone freezes, slowly turning their gazes toward her. 

"Sh-She's an abomination!" Cullen exclaims, eyes wild with fear. "Kill it now, before it consumes us all."

Melina throws herself in between Jalyn and Cullen, lips trembling. "No, she's not. I can't let you hurt her, please," she says, voice pleading as she grips Cullen's arm.

Jowan stares at Jalyn, tears finally rolling down his gaunt face. "You... laughed. Oh, sweet Maker, I never thought I'd hear that sound again. How can this be?" He still holds her hands in his, gripping them so tight his knuckles are white.

Jalyn blinks, glancing down at their clasped hands. "You are hurting me," she replies. "It is uncomfortable."

He lets go, opening his mouth to reply, when Cullen jerks his arm away from Melina. She stumbles, tears spilling from her eyes. She falls with a soft cry, knees smacking against the sand. Dane howls low, teeth bared at the templar.

Maroth scowls, lip curled in anger. "That was a mistake, templar," he says with a growl. "An' you best start pointin' that shiny sword somewhere else. Yer a friggin' nutter if ya think yer killin' my cousin. I'll let you take this blood mage before ya lay a finger on her."

Wynne lets out a weary sigh, patting Jalyn on the shoulder. "She's not an abomination, young man. She's just a tranquil, who spent too long in the Fade. There benevolent spirits there, as well as demons, and one has touched her mind."

Alistair helps Melina to her feet, brow furrowed. "That is quite enough from all of you," he says, exhaustion filling his voice. "No one is killing anyone today. Maker's breath, but we're having less trouble with the assassin than we are with the rest of you lot."

Daveth snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. "I bet Duncan never thought of this when he spouted that bull about us all gettin' along," he grumbles. "Right then, we're gettin' rooms at the inn here, and tomorrow we march to Redcliffe. Jowan, you'll room with me. The tranquil will room with Alistair and Wynne. That way, we know you're safe from anyone who gets any ideas during the night," he continues, looking at Cullen pointedly.

Alistair nods his agreement. "Right, we should double up anyway, it's not a very big place. Cullen, you can room with the Sister. I don't really trust you with our mages," he says.

Morrigan scoffs, her thing arms crossed against her chest. "Our mages? How very sweet of you, Alistair," she says, tone snide.

"Or you can room with the witch, since she's evil incarnate," Alistair grumbles.

Maroth runs his fingers through his hair, sighing heavily. "I'm feelin' less tired an' more like I could us some relief, if ya get my meanin'," he mutters.

Zevran grins, winking lasciviously at him. "I can help you with that, yes? I am good at many things, and sex is my favourite skill that I possess."

He looks Zevran up and down, taking in the man's deep tan and high cheekbones. "Right, well, I'm roomin' with the assassin then."

Alistair groans, shaking his head and rolling his eyes. "Right, if you think that's a smart idea, go right ahead." He turns to Melina, ruffling her hair again. "Do you mind sharing a room with Morrigan, Mi'lady?"

Maroth notices Cullen scowling at the exchange. The templar takes a step forward before pausing, only to turn around on his heel and march off toward the Spoiled Princess.

"I would be honoured to share a room with her," she replies, smiling. She turns to Morrigan, curtsying. "I hope that we can become friends, Lady Morrigan."

Morrigan raises an eyebrow before shrugging. "Friends? Do you plan on keeping me up all night with silly talk? Or do you think we will bond because we are both women and mages? No matter, if you have questions, I suppose I can answer them."

"Right, yer goin' to have plenty of fun with that," Maroth quips. "Right then. Assassin, yer ready fer a long night of pleasure then?"

Zevran chuckles, and the sound sends a shiver of anticipation down Maroth's spine. "I am always ready for pleasure, my sexy young friend."

Maroth grins, turning toward the inn. He can feel Zevran's eyes on him, and looks forward to what's to come. He's heard things about the Antivan Crows, and their training in the art of seduction. It feels like forever since he and Aneirin had lain together, enjoying each other's company. His heart flutters slightly at the thought of his previous lover, but he pushes the thought out of his mind. He doesn't want to mourn his losses tonight. Tonight, he wants to lose himself in the hands of a skilled lover, the heady intoxication of the smell of sex, the taste of another's lips. Tonight, he wants to forget all the dark things that have happened to him since he lost Nessy, all the death and fighting and horror. 

The door of their room closes with a soft click and he turns, meeting Zevran's golden eyes. He swallows, suddenly nervous, and the assassin chuckles.

Zevran pushes away from the door, stalking toward him like a cat ready to pounce. "Are you sure this what you want, my friend? Or were all those words earlier simply talk?" he murmurs, his voice like warm velvet.

Maroth puts an arm on the man's hip, tilting his head down to match the man's height. He's only a few inches shorter than Maroth, and he closes his eyes as their lips meet. Zevran's lips are full and warm as his expertly moves his tongue, making Maroth moan in delight. The Crow's fingers make quick work of his many buckles on the armour. It makes a loud clank as it falls to the floor.

Zevran runs a finger across his nipple, rolling the hardened nub through his thin undershirt. Maroth tilts his head back, moaning deeply, as the other man captures the bud in his mouth, sucking it through the shirt.

"You make such delightful sounds, my friend. Lay down on the bed and I will make you purr," Zevran whispers against his neck, tongue darting out to lick at the hollow of his throat.

Maroth leans back, sitting on the edge of the bed as Zevran kneels in front of him. "Yer certainly earning yer keep, assassin," he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, there were three lines of in-game dialogue for Alistair used here, I'm sorry! I try to stick to original dialogue only, but those lines just worked so well as is. I tried to at least keep it to more uncommon lines, and I tweaked the third one a bit. Please forgive this writer for her lack of originality this chapter! *humbly bows* 
> 
> For Cullen, I also tried to use original dialogue, but some lines may seem very similar, I'm sorry. :( Hopefully you were able to enjoy this chapter anyway!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize I forgot about Dane, the mabari. He never talks so he's easier to forget. I'm going back to change that, but to paraphrase now: He was left at The Spoiled Princess during the Circle quest. The rest is unimportant to do an entire re-read of, but I promise to do better in the future. Basically, the scene he was added to is the one where they come back to the shore, and they all argue a lot. When Cullen tosses Melina to the ground, Dane growls and bares his teeth at the man. I'm so sorry, I can't believe I forgot him.

The sun beats hot against Jalyn's neck, sweat pouring down her face in thick rivulets and stinging her eyes. Melina turns to her with furrowed brows, a small metal flask in hand. "You must feel thirsty," she whispers, and Jalyn does not answer. Dane, the mabari hound, follows close to Melina's side, tongue hanging out as he pants.

The corners of the mage's lips turn down in a frown,  thrusting the flask toward her again. "Here, you must drink," she says again, her soft voice full of an emotion that does not touch Jalyn.

Obediently, her hand reaches out to grab the flask. It is cold, like ice, beneath her fingertips and the water soothes her throat as she presses it to her lips. She takes a drink, no more and no less, before handing it back to Melina. The girl shakes her head, curls bouncing around her plump face. "No, drink more," she encourages, and Jalyn obeys.

They enter a dense growth of trees, the leaves providing shade from the relentless beating of the sun. "Ah, 'bout friggin' time," Maroth mutters, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Jalyn glances at the man she remembers to be her cousin. His face no longer holds the roundness of boyhood, his cheekbones high and hollow. His once moppy hair is longer now, pulled back in a low ponytail. He sends a wink toward the other elf, the one they call an assassin. "It's hot enough to fry an egg in this friggin' heat," her cousin quips.

A strange feeling bubbles forth from inside her, laughter spilling from her lips. In a flash, it's gone again, retreating back within. The others look at her strangely, though she doesn't understand why. The feeling of amusement is odd to her. So accustomed to nothingness, to peaceful tranquility, that even the barest hint of amusement is uncomfortable.

Strange shadows play against the ground as she hears a scuttling sound whispering from the trees. The others freeze, their faces a mask of horror as giant spiders fall from the branches. The one called Daveth knocks her out of the way before one of the creatures lands on her head. Daveth's eyes are wide, his skin turning pale underneath his tan. "Maker's breath, why does such a thing even exist?" he mutters, swallowing loudly enough that Jalyn can hear it.

While the others feel fear, she feels nothing at all as she watches them fight. She knows, somewhere in the back of her mind, that once she would have felt concern for the ones called Melina, Jowan, and Maroth. Her eyes roam around the sudden battlefield, searching for the familiar faces. She can see Jowan their, across the clearing, his face twisted with fear. A spider rears up, shooting its webbing and entrapping the mage boy. 

A bolt of purple fire flies toward the spider, burning it before it reaches him. The blonde knight named Alistair uses a dagger to slice away the webbing, before turning back to the fight. His face shows no fear, just concentrated determination as he slams his shield into a spider's face.

She looks around again, this time searching for Melina. She sees her nearby, casting glyphs that hold the spiders in a frozen position. One scuttles up behind her, knocking her to the ground. Melina screams, kicking out with her foot as the beast attacks with its strange fangs. The templar is watching, and he hesitates only a moment, indecision in his eyes, before charging the spider with a roar that shakes the branches of the trees. He slams his shield into the spider's side, and both man and beast fall to the ground in a tangle of too many limps. The spider is on its back and Cullen jams his sword into its belly where the webbing comes from, twisting it with a mad expression on his face. Dane growls as he wrestles with the spider's leg, ripping it off as blood splatters everywhere.

Melina casts another glyph on the ground as another spider, this one slightly bigger than the rest, comes scuttling toward them. It trips over the strange symbols that Jalyn recognizes as being a glyph of repulsion, and the spider flies through the air, knocking into Maroth. He crawls from under the spider, a scowl on his face, and stabs it with a small dagger. "Could ya watch where yer throwing the bloody things, girl? Flyin' friggin' spiders are not w'at I was hopin' to have hit me today," he grumbles.

Jalyn giggles, the laughter taking control of her for a brief moment before catching the attention of another spider. It rears up, shooting its web at her. She's frozen, unable to move, and wonders if she should feel afraid. Daveth stands in front of her, firing arrows rapid fire at the spider as it charges them. She can see, just a little, out of one eye, the rest of her covered by the webbing.

Her breath is cut off, and her lungs fight to take in air, sending sharp pains along her rib cage. Hands pull at the webbing, and a panic stricken face comes into view. Melina rests her forehead against Jalyn's, breathing a sigh of relief as the last of the web falls away. "Oh, Maker, Jalyn, I was so worried for you," she whispers, breath light against Jalyn's skin.

A new feeling swells up inside Jalyn, curving her lips into a tiny smile. "I am glad you're here," Jalyn replies.

Melina's eyes fly open as she pulls back. She looks to Wynne, who's eyes flash golden for a brief moment in the shadows. "It seems she has regained another emotion; gratitude. I would think you'd be pleased," the elder mage whispers softly in Melina's ear.

The younger mage bites her lip, a soft sigh escaping. "I... ." she hesitates, looking up to meet Jalyn's gaze. Melina's hand touches her cheek, and it feels cool and soft against Jalyn's skin. "I am," she answers, and what looks like regret flashes in her eyes.

 

 ~*~*~

 

 

Jalyn can see Alistair whispering with Daveth, standing off by themselves next to a worn house made of rain soaked wood. The air reeks of fish; a thick, pungent smell that wrinkles her nose. She wanders off, staring at a small group of bright, white flowers that perfume the air with sweetness. Her hand reaches out, brushing against the silky soft petals. A shadow covers the ground, and she looks up to see Jowan standing above her, shifting awkwardly.  

He clears his throat before kneeling down next to her. "That's uh, Andraste's Grace. It's pretty, isn't it?" he mumbles, grey eyes meeting hers.

She stares, studying the way his eyelashes fall against his cheeks when he blinks. "It is used in potion making," she replies, voice stoic. "Your companions might have use of it."

Jowan takes a deep breath, and she can tell he's unhappy with her response. "They're your companions, too, Jalyn. You're finally free, don't you see that?"

"You wish for me to feel something? I cannot," she answers.

Jowan purses his lips, fingers brushing against hers. "You will. Wynne said you will. You always said she was a good mentor, smart, even if she was a bit preachy."

Jalyn moves her hand, plucking the flower and getting to her feet. "Perhaps. I do not miss my emotions. I am at peace, the way I am."

He shakes his head fiercely, dark brown hair slapping him in the face. "No, I know you. You'd never want to stay like this. You were so passionate, full of fire." He takes another deep breath, bowing his head. "This is my fault it's happened to you. Because I dabbled in blood magic. I never should have done it, my love, I'm so sorry. I'll make it up to you, I swear it."

Something flutters in her heart at his words but it's gone before she can figure out what it is. A brief flash, like a whisper on the wind, flickering on the edges of her memory. A lost dream, scattered remnants fading by the second. "You are sad?" she asks.

He looks up at her, tears in his eyes. "It doesn't matter. What matters is you," he replies. He takes her hand, tugging her back toward the others. "We should hurry, before they leave us behind."

Jalyn listens quietly as the others discuss the state of the village. Undead attack the village every night, a relentless assault that takes more lives with each passing day, only to turn the victims into more undead. The Chantry smells of sweat and the unwashed; dirty scared faces watch them as they speak with a man who calls himself 'Bann Teagan'. She stands a little apart from the others, watching them. Cullen shivers, and mentions a demon. Says he can feel it, dark and tainted, in the castle. It's the one controlling the undead, moving them about like chess pieces for its amusement.

Alistair frowns, turning to the mages to seek their opinion. Jalyn looks around, and then sees Melina standing off in a small room to the side, crouched down on the floor.

Jalyn walks over to her, watching and observing. Melina has her eyes closed, lips murmuring a silent spell as she holds a little boy's arm in her hands. The boy's eyes widen as Melina looks at him, a small smile curving her lips. "There now, Bevin, your arm is healed. Does it feel better?" Melina asks, tucking a strand of her wild hair behind her ear.

The boy, Bevin, grins widely. "Thank you so much! You're so nice," he replies. "You're like Andraste herself, healing the sick and wounded."

A blush colours her cheeks as a young woman giggles. "Bevin, I think you've embarressed her," she whispers, nudging the boy with her foot.

"Sorry, Kaitlyn," he replies. "Thank you again, miss," he says to Melina. He scratches Dane behind the ears, and the dog almost seems to smile in response, thumping his leg on the ground in apparent pleasure.

The girl he had called Kaitlyn just shakes her head, her dark blond hair falling in her eyes. "How can we repay you, miss?"

Melina gets to her feet, curtsying low. "Just stay safe, the both of you."

"We don't have much, but my father had a sword," Kaitlyn says, biting her lip.

Melina shakes her head, a soft smile on her face. "Please, you needn't give me anything. It brings a healer joy to heal, and helping you is reward enough."

"You truly are like Andraste," the girl whispers, amazement colouring her voice. "Thank you."

"Melina? We need you over here, please," Alistair calls out, motioning her over.

Jalyn catches her eye, and Melina's smile slips. Her eyes travel up to Jalyn's tranquil brand, and sorrow fills her eyes. She turns away quickly, hurrying back to the group. "I'm sorry, Alistair. The little boy was in pain, and I- I should have asked you before I went to him," she says.

Alistair ruffles her hair, earning a tight scowl from Cullen. "You're fine, I'm glad you helped him. Right, so we're helping the village, and then in the morning we'll make an assault on the castle. We'll need your help to keep the villagers alive with your healing spells, okay?"

Jalyn wonders at their interaction, a sudden sense of curiosity pawing at her. Is that jealousy she sees in the Templar's eyes? Or something else? It's hard to tell. Before Jalyn can think too hard on it, the emotion is gone, vanished under veil of nothingness.

Melina nods, beaming up at the man. "I will do my best. These poor villagers, we have to save them, right?"

Maroth grunts, lip curling. "That's yer opinion, poppet. These shems wouldn't think twice if it were an alienage bein' attacked. Bugger it all, I'll be in the tavern until night fall. I need a strong pint of ale if I'm goin' to be helping a village full of shem."

He glances at Jalyn as he passes, pausing for a moment. "Right, they don't need ya here, either, cousin. C'mon, yer comin' with me. I could use a familiar face now."

Daveth lets out a sigh, clapping the man on the shoulder. "I'll come along, too. Maybe we can have a drink together before fighting a horde of rottin' corpses," he says with a shiver.

Maroth chuckles, grabbing Jalyn's wrist. "Yeah, alright. Just don't hold me back if there's a pretty face there willin' ta help me relieve some of this tension."

Zevran pouts, but his eyes gleam mischief. " Ah, but I thought that was what I was here for, no?"

Jalyn is aware that they're flirting, and memories poke through the haze of tranquility. Once, it seems like ages ago now, she had flirted much the same with Jowan. She had been the daring one, stealing the first kiss in the shadows of Kinloch Hold. She remembers delighting in the way the mage blushed before kissing her back, lips warm and hungry as he pulled at her robes. She can remember the way her breath would hitch in her throat as he entered her, filling her with his need. 

She blinks, pushing the memories away. She doesn't want to remember. It reminds her of feeling.

Daveth lets out a low groan as the four of them walk toward the tavern. "Please tell me you two aren't going to spend the entire time flirting. I'll need more alcohol if you do," he warns.

"Perhaps we should invite the pretty redheaded sister, no? Leliana seems to be your type," Zevran quips, chuckling.

"Shut it, you," Daveth mutters. "I don't need lip from an assassin."

The door of the tavern swings wide, and the smell of wine and ale hits her hard. A group of men sit in the corner, faces ragged and scruffy in the dim light. A portly man stands at the bar, wiping down the dirt with a mean scowl on his face. 

"Hello, what can I get for ya?" A girl with long, deep red hair greets them, a smile wide on her face. Jalyn blinks at her, head tilted. She reminds her of something. Something she doesn't want to remember. She looks away, staring at a speck of dust, gratitude filling her at the lack of strong emotions. The little hints she feels now and again are overwhelming as it is, and make it difficult for her to breathe.

Maroth looks the tavern wench up and down, a smirk twisting his lips. "Well, pretty thing, I can think of somethin' ya can do fer me," he says, winking.

She lets out a soft laugh. "Oh, you're a charmer, you are. If you want ale, we've got plenty. If you're looking for anything else, you've come to the wrong place, I'm afraid."

"Not even a kiss for the heroes who'll be saving yer village?" Maroth quips. 

"Do you often ask for a kiss from a girl before you even ask her name?" the girl retorts, eyes twinkling in amusement.

Maroth chuckles, tucking a strand of the girl's hair behind her ear. "Tell me yer name, beautiful, an' I'll tell ya mine," he murmurs. 

Her cheeks heat up bright red, matching her hair. "Oh my," she whispers. "Beautiful, is it? Very well, my name's Bella."

"Bella," he whispers. "What a lovely name, fer such a lovely girl. My name's Maroth, right."

She leans forward, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek, almost touching his lips. "There, how's that? Maybe if we all come out alive after all this mess, there'll be more waiting for you."

Daveth clears his throat while Zevran laughs, clutching his sides. "Right, that's awkward. Can we get drunk now? I have a new image I need to erase," he mumbles.

Maroth slings an arm around him, grinning. "Yer just jealous I got ta her first," he replies.

"Arsehole," Daveth grumbles.

Bella chuckles, eyeing them both. "Well, you're both pretty cute," she admits, winking and walking away.

Daveth pushes at Maroth, laughing and shaking his head. "I hate you," he says.

Maroth opens his mouth to reply, laughter gleaming in his eyes, when he freezes. "Berwick? W'at in the void are ya doin' here, ya lout?" He walks over to a brown haired elf sitting by himself, a grin on his face. "Don't tell me yer on a mission here?"

The name hovers on the edges of Jalyn's memory. She's small, still a child, and templars are surrounding her. They're passing through a village, and the moon is glowing brightly. Berwick... Berwick... The memory is faded, soft around the edges. An offer of bread, a kind smile, a few words before the templars hauled her off again.  _"Yer cousin sent me. Said he wanted ta make sure ya made it to the tower. Looks like yer alright."_

Berwick frowns, waving his hands. "Shut up, you dolt. You want to send the whole village on me? Shit." He sighs, looking around. "Bloody void, I never thought I'd see  _you_ here, of all people."

"Who's this then?" Daveth asks, scratching the side of his nose. "Friend of yours?"

Zevran chuckles softly, shaking his head. "I recognize your face, as well. You're a spy."

"Oh this is just wonderful, really," Berwick replies, burying his face in his palm. "The Maker cursed me, I know it."

Maroth takes a seat across from him. "Eh, don't worry, Berwick. Tell me, w'at yer doin' here? Who sent ya?"

"I don't have to tell you anything, Maroth," he grumbles, looking away. "I left Denerim a long time ago, I worked hard to erase that part of my life, to make a name for myself. I don't need you coming up and bringing it all back."

Maroth shrugs, leaning forward casually. "You don't _have_ ta tell me, but my friends here won't like it too much if ya don't."

"It's not like this shit is my fault," Berwick replies. "I was just sent to watch, that's all. And I was sent by Loghain, so I didn't do anything wrong!"

Maroth exchanges a glance with Daveth as Zevran chuckles. "Loghain, ah now there is a familiar name," the assassin says. "I wonder, did he pay you as much as he paid the Crows?"

Berwick scoffs. "I doubt that. Are we done here?"

Daveth frowns, placing a hand on the elven spy's shoulder. "Perhaps you'd be interested in another job? The coin's shit, but it'll still be worth your while."

"How's that?"

A slow grin spreads across Daveth's face. "You'll get to keep your life."

"Wonderful," Berwick replies, rolling his eyes. He frowns, regarding Maroth closely. "So, what's the Dark Wolf doing in a village like this? You lookin' to rob the Arl?"

Jalyn watches as Daveth's jaw drops. "The Dark Wolf?  _The_ Dark Wolf? You can't be serious. I've heard of you, I have, when I was a pickpocket in Denerim. Andraste's pantaloons, I can't believe yer him." He pauses, smacking Maroth upside the head. "I can't believe ya didn't tell us, either."

Maroth grins, rubbing the back of his head. "Right, well between the demons, and trips ta the Fade, it somehow hasn't come up," he replies dryly.

Jalyn giggles, the sound unsettling even to her own ears. Maroth grins at her though, seemingly pleased. "Ah Maker, that's a good sound," he whispers.

Berwick turns, looking at her with wide, surprised eyes. "Jalyn? Is that... Shit, what the void happened to you?"

She looks at him, blinking slowly. "I am one the Tranquil now," she replies. "Your voice is different."

He shrugs, shifting in his chair. "No one wants to hire a spy that sounds like a gutternsipe," he replies with grunt.  "Your voice is... also different. And creepy."

"I am making you uncomfortable. I should go," she replies.

Zevran snorts, a soft sound that punctuates the sudden silence. "Ami, I think you make us all uncomfortable, and probably will until you return to however you were before. Actually, maybe you still will."

Maroth pokes him the ribs, frowning. "Yer not helpin'," he grumbles. "Right then, cousin, we're goin' ta stay an' get drunk. You go back to the others an' give this message to Alistair, yeah?"

Berwick grabs a note from his pocket, handing it to her. "Give him this too," he adds. "Might as well have evidence to back it up, if I'm selling out my employer."

Jalyn nods dutifully. "I will obey your command."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing from a Tranquil's pov is hard. Writing from one who is slowing being cured from Tranquility, even harder. Hopefully this actually reads okay. Redcliffe village is a necessary scene to go over, but I wanted it to be fresh and feel like more than just a in-game run-through, while still covering the important plot points. I hope that this was not a boring chapter for you.


	8. Chapter 8

The battle is over. Melina rests her back against the windmill, a cool and welcoming breeze blowing the frizzy tendrils of her hair. She slides down, sitting on her butt in the grass, and Dane leans against her. She reaches her hand to pet the dog behind his ears, enjoying the warm, musky sent of hound. She lets her eyelids flutter closed, exhaustion clawing at her mind. The battle is over. 

And they won. The villagers all still live. No one had to face the horror of being dragged off by the undead remains of people they once knew. The demon's rage at their win is fierce, though, and tugs at her mind even now. The demon howls, mindless anger at being denied more villagers to use as playthings for its mad whims.

But Melina allows herself to rest, knowing it isn't over, not by a long shot. She had spent the battle healing, over and over, keeping so many from death or being overcome with terror and fleeing. She's bone-tired, more weary than she had been even trapped in the Fade. She had glanced in a mirror before travelling to the top of this hill, and circles ring around her eyes, dark against the icy paleness of her skin and hair. 

A sharp emotion pricks at her, coming closer as she sits there. She leaps to her feet, heart racing. "Pardon me, but Bann Teagan? Someone is coming from the castle. Whoever it is... they're very afraid," Melina says, joining the small group gathered there.

Bann Teagan turns to her, handsome face forming a frown. "What? How can you- Maker's breath!" His eyes widen as he points toward a woman in a fancy gown rushing toward them, her deep blonde hair pulled back haphazardly into a bun. Her red and golden gown is stained with blood and mud, torn and frayed at the edges.

Her fear and panic is thick in the air, thick enough to choke on if Melina were to let it. She brings up her shields, blocking out the majority of the stinging emotion. The woman's face is pinched, brows furrowed tightly. "Teagan! Thank the Maker you yet live," she whispers, clutching at his armour. "Please, you must come with me, back to the castle."

Daveth frowns, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Just who in the void are you?" he asks, scratching his nose.

The woman turns to him, lip curled in distaste. "Who am  _I?_ I am Lady Isolde, Arlessa of Redcliffe. Who are _you_?" she asks, voice dripping disdain as panic rolls off her.

"I'm a Grey Warden, and one of them who helped saved your village, so be careful with that smug tone of yours," he mutters.

Alistair steps forward, sighing heavily. "Hello, Lady Isolde," he says, bowing slightly.

Her eyes flash in recognition. "Alistair? Why are you here?"

"I've come with the Grey Wardens, Mi'lady, to ask for Arl Eamon's help. I see that he's in no state to help anyone right now, so we're offering to do what we can."

She nods, letting out a sigh of her own. She turns back to Teagan, swallowing, tears brimming in her eyes. "Please, Teagan, you must come back with me. There's something holding my son hostage, please. You must help me save Conner," she says, voice breaking.

Teagan nods, prying her fingers loose. "Of course, Isolde-" he begins, only to be cut off by a grunt from Cullen.

"You would be a fool to go with this woman alone. There is a demon in that castle, as well as more than one mage," he interrupts, face a dark scowl.

Melina nods as Dane leans against her leg, offering her comfort. "Cullen is right, Bann Teagan. Your life would be at risk if you went alone. And you would not be able to fight any demon you find; you are neither a mage nor templar trained."

Isolde's eyes flash with anger. "No! It made me promise that only Teagan and I would return. If I bring others then who knows what it might do to Conner! I will not risk my son," she snaps, Orlesian accent remarkably similar to the Lay Sister's.

Daveth shakes his head, running his fingers across the bit of stubble that's been growing on his chin. "Well, it's a good thing it ain't up to you, lady. Right, you mentioned a tunnel, yeah? Take Melina and, Maker I hope I don't regret this, Cullen with you and a small team of us will go through the tunnels. If the demon thinks you've already taken the ones who helped you with you, then it'll never expect more of us coming up through the tunnels. I hope."

Alistair smirks, crossing his arms. "You hope? That's reassuring."

"No, you can't!" Isolde's voice is high pitched and full of fear that sends Melina staggering. 

Melina places a hand on Isolde's shoulder as the woman cries, tears spilling down her well-sculpted cheeks. "Mi'lady, you must allow us to come with you. There will be no hope for saving your family otherwise. Trust in the Warden's plan, they have not steered us wrong thus far."

Daveth snorts, exchanging a glance with his fellow warden. "Right then, that's encouraging. I say you, me, Morrigan, Leliana, and Jowan should take to the tunnels. We'll leave Tabris, the assassin, and the old lady here to watch over the villagers with the tranquil."

Dane barks, bounding in circles. Melina scratches his ears, shaking her head. "You'll come with me, Ser Dane," she assures the hound.

Isolde buries her face in her hands, a sense of hopelessness echoing out from her in cold, bitter waves. "We are all doomed," she whispers.

"It'll be alright, Isolde. I wouldn't be alive if not for them. We can trust them," Teagan assures her, pulling her a bit away from the others to console her crying.

Cullen glances at Melina, lip curled, before turning back to the Wardens. "Do you really want to take a blood mage to battle a demon?" He hisses the question, voice full of more menace and anger than Melina's ever heard, especially from him.  

Daveth matches him glare for glare, however, not backing down under the weight of Cullen's distrust. "Are you questioning your orders, templar?" he asks, voice low. "Because I can send Wynne with Melina instead, if you keep up this attitude. Your job is to protect Miss Melina, and follow  _her_ orders, understood?"

Melina stares at him, flabbergasted by his words. "Yo- You're putting  _me_ in charge? Of a templar?" Her voice is full of a mixture of awe and confusion as she watches Daveth, lips parted.

He nods his head, looking her squarely in the eye. "That's right. You've got a good head on ya. Maybe you can keep this hot headed idiot under control. You've done good so far, Melina. You just need to stop doubtin' yourself so much."

"I agree with Daveth. You've got a good heart, and a good sense of judgement. If this one gives you any trouble, don't hesitate to remind him who's in command," Alistair says, voicing his agreement as he winks at her.

Her cheeks burn bright red. If they only knew what choice she's made, they wouldn't trust in her so, and she knows it. She sacrificed a powerful healer, and a wise woman, to save her dearest friend. She made a deal with a demon. She looks at the toes of her boots, peaking out from underneath her long, faded robes. She takes a deep breath, pushing her tears back. She's not a good person at all. "I'll do my best for you both," she whispers. 

"I will not take orders from a _mage_ ," Cullen snarls.

"You will, or you can march right back to the circle," Daveth replies, turning his back on them both. "Right then, I'm going to go inform the others of our plan. Melina, come with me."

Melina hurries after him, Dane walking slowly behind her. The breeze blows the bright green grasses, the smell of fish and corpses wafting through the air. She curtsies to the Chantry sister standing by the Chanter's board as they go, a small smile curving her lips. "The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace," Melina whispers as the doors of the Chantry swing wide.

Daveth glances at her over his shoulder. "You're awfully religious for a mage," he remarks.

She nods, waving at Bevin as she walks toward the front of the Chantry. "I believe in the Maker and Andraste with all of my heart. Is that so hard to believe?" she asks.

"Just, don't these Chantry folk, ain't they the ones who keep your people locked up in them towers?"

She bites her lips, hesitating for a moment on how to explain. "All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings," she recites. "The Maker loves us all. It's for our own protection, and the protection of others, that we learn our spells in the Circles."

"Seems like a bunch of hogwash if ya ask me," Daveth replies. "Seems like you could learn your spells there, but live wherever you wanted, if they didn't fear you so much."

His words hit her hard, reminding her of someone. "You sound like Jalyn once did," she whispers, sadness colouring her voice.

She listens quietly as Daveth explains their plan, fidgeting with the folds of her dress. She looks up at catches Izanami's eyes, and a wave of uncertainty slams into her. Is she really strong enough to resist a demon? A small flutter flickers in her heart and she feels the Faith spirit answering in its own way. A soft play of images, a memory from long ago. She can see herself, when she was still a child. Her hair was shorter, frizzier, and fell only to her chin. It's her first time in the Fade, and she walks around alone. She hasn't left for Kinloch Hold yet, no, she's still back in Kirkwall with her parents. 

_A small glowing wisp is there, fighting off a larger creature. It's made of fire and rage and lashes out at the wisp, who cries out in pain. Melina rushes forward, fear in her throat, and lashes out with uncontrolled energy that hits the rage demon full force, sending it withering back into the ground. "Oh you poor thing," Melina whispers, cradling the little wisp in her hands. "You're in such pain."_

_She holds it close to her chest, tears pouring down her chubby cheeks. She closes her eyes, and focuses  on the tiny wisp. It sparks like lightening, stinging her hands, and a cry escapes her lips. It floats above her now, twinkling bright against the strange darkness of the Fade. She smiles up at it. "Did I help? I hope I helped."_

She falls back to the present as the memory ends. Her heart is racing beneath her chest as she tries to collect her thoughts. She had forgotten that time, how she used to walk the Fade before her family realized she had magic inside her. "Was that you?" Melina whispers the question, and the others look at her strangely.

"Yer... w'at?" Maroth asks, one brow raised. "W'at yer on about now?"

Izanami smiles, patting her on the shoulder. "It's nothing," she replies in her place, her voice the same gravelly tone of Wynne's. It pulls at Melina's heart, and she looks away, unable to meet the demon's eyes. "I wish for a moment alone with my pupil, if I may. To help her prepare."

Daveth nods his head. "Right, go on then, but make it quick, Wynne."

Melina looks at the ground as Izanami leads her away, her fingers cold even through the fabric of her robe. Izanami clears her throat and Melina looks up, staring into honey coloured eyes instead of blue. "You're afraid, mortal," the demon states, tone matter-of-fact.

Melina furrows her brow, refusing to answer. The Faith spirit inside her sends out a flicker of warmth, soothing her as she meets the demon's gaze head on. Izanami smirks, the expression strange on Wynne's wrinkled face. "You needn't answer, mortal, I can feel your fear. Being trapped in the body of an empath is... odd. I feel so much more than I had imagined. More than anyone else, I can feel  _you._ You were special to this Wynne, and part of her love has leaked from her mind to mine. We're blended now, and I find myself worried for you." She frowns, as if the thought is truly foreign to her. "No matter, I won't let it affect me overmuch. Here is what you need to know, mortal. There is a desire demon in that castle. It will likely try to tempt you. Should you end up entering the Fade, I will join you there and fight against the demon at your side, while this body sleeps in the mortal realm."

Melina narrows her eyes, clenching her fists tightly. "I don't need the help of one demon to fight another," she hisses.

Izanami clucks her tongue, shaking her head with another smirk. "I am no demon, mortal. Does Wynne appear an abomination to you? Wynne and I are one now, much like you and Faith. The only difference is that I am in control of this body because I am the stronger mind. If Faith were not so weak, your situation would be much the same."

"I have never heard of a choice spirit before," Melina accuses, frowning.

"Oh, and you have heard of every denizen of the Fade, have you, mortal?" Izanami lets out of a soft chuckle, eyes flashing. "We are much more varied and nuance than your precious Chantry would lead you to believe."

"I- I don't believe you," Melina replies, though doubt has slithered into her mind already.

"You don't need to," Izanami says. "Now go, the others are waiting for you." Her eyes shift back to light blue as she turns, lips curving into a gentle, almost motherly smile as she walks away.

Melina lets out a sigh as Daveth walks up to her, exhaustion making her shoulders sag. "I am ready, Warden," she murmurs, offering him a smile.

He nods, running a hand over his scruff. "Right, good. Let's go meet with the others, now that I have Jowan and Morrigan."

She follows behind them, taking slow and deep breaths to steady herself. Fear makes her hands tremble, and she clutches her robes in her hands to stop the shaking. She watches as Morrigan shifts her form once again, this time taking the shape of a wolf. Her fur is dark brown with streaks of black, and the musky sent of wolf hits her nose as a breeze blows by. Morrigan looks at Melina over her shoulder, her eyes the same slits of bright yellow they are in human form. Once again, the colour tugs at her mind, forcing some strange memory to the surface in flickers. A vision, a moment in the Fade, a woman... Faith cries out inside her, shrinking back in fear.

Melina stumbles, breath caught in her throat. She pushes the memory back, further down into the dark corners of her mind where it can lay forgotten. She doesn't need to remember, whatever it was. She can't risk turning Faith from spirit to demon, and losing herself in the process. For a moment, she wishes she had never left Kinloch Hold, never seen the rest of the world even with its beautiful trees and sky and delicious foods.

But wishes aren't horses, and she can't afford to ride.

 

~*~*~

 

Dane walks in front, hackles raised and head lowered. Melina juts her chin out, holding her breath as she takes her first step into the castle. The dark magic dances along her skin, slithering and slick like hot oil dripping from a lamp. She pulls her cloak tight around her shoulders, glancing over at Cullen. His face is hard lines and anger, cast in shadows with a scar along his lip. She aches to reach for him, pull him close and comfort him. But that would be folly, and she knows it, for any touch of magic would light his rage- even hers. Maybe especially hers.

"Cullen, can you feel that? The demon knows we're here," she whispers.

He nods, a short jerk of his head. "Yes, I feel it. Blasted mages," he replies.

She reaches out her hand, hesitant, and places it soft along his arm. He turns to her, meeting her gaze with a scowl. "I need you to help protect Bann Teagan and Lady Isolde," she says, praying silently that his kind nature hasn't been entirely replaced with wrath. "Please," she adds, voice soft.

He scowls further but nods, jerking his arm away from her touch. She sighs, turning to look at Isolde.

"Conner," the woman cries out, pushing past her and running into the main hall. "Oh, my sweet boy," she says, falling to her knees, tears pouring down her cheeks in thick, dark rivulets, smearing her makeup.

"Fool woman, you were to only bring Uncle!" the boy yells, his voice deeper than it should be. The high pitched sound of a child's tone is overshadowed by a menacing growl that echos around the room. His eyes glow dark purple, like magic fire that burns cold.

Melina falters, staring at a boy who can't be older than eight or nine, his blonde hair the same colour as his mothers. His cheeks are lined with dirt and blood, lips twisted in a cruel smile. "Maker's breath," Melina whispers, crossing her heart. "It's possessed a child."

Teagan thunders past them, and she can feel his shock and anger rippling off him in scalding hot waves. "What in the void is this? Isolde, I demand to know what's going on!"

Cullen's lips are parted as he watches the little boy throw his head back, mad laughter bubbling forth. The templar shakes his head, brows furrowed. "Your nephew is gone, Bann Teagan. That is an abomination."

Isolde shakes her head so hard Melina's afraid her neck might snap. "No! Don't say that! Co-Conner is still in there," she shouts, clutching at her son's tunic, eyes wild. "Please, my son, come back," she begs.

Tears prick at the corners of Melina's eyes as Isolde's desperation and pain hits her. "Oh, Lady Isolde, I'm so sorry, but Cullen is right. Your son is no more," she whispers, too soft for the woman to hear. She looks up at Cullen, and can see the look of horror on his face. "Cullen, I-" she begins, but doesn't know what to say.

He places a hand on her shoulder, metal-encased fingers gripping tight. "Don't let your emotions control you, Melina. We have to stay strong," he says, and she can see a muscle in his jaw clenching.

"But he was just a little boy..." she whispers as Isolde's grief knocks into her, stealing her breath.

Cullen meets her eyes, frowning. "Don't think about it. The boy is dead, or as good as. Focus on the demon, and the fact that it needs to die to avenge the boy."

"Die? No, I won't let you kill my son, you can't," Isolde screams. 

Melina whips around, watching as Isolde gets to her feet, standing in front of her son. "He's my baby, I can't let you hurt him. Have you ever had a child? For nine years I have held him, and loved him, and I won't let you take him from me!"

Melina walks over to her, bringing up her barriers to block the emotions of the Arl's family. "I'm so sorry, Lady Isolde, but that's no longer for you to decide," Melina says, tone gentle. "Your son is already gone."

Teagan, narrows his eyes, clenching his fists at his sides. "You can't be serious, he's just a child!" 

The demon laughs again, and its magic slides against Melina's skin like cobwebs in the dark. "You think you can kill me? Oh, what fun! Shall we play a game then? You can fight my servants, first," it says, ending its sentence with a giggle.

Elves surround them, eyes gleaming with a mixture of madness and sorrow. Bile rises in Melina's throat as she looks at their ears; they've all be sliced off, leaving behind gaping wounds covered in dried blood. They let out a screech that pierces the air and Melina calls up her mana as one rushes her.

She tries not to hurt them, but their attacks are relentless. Their hands claw at her faces, mouths foaming rabidly as they scream. Spittle flies, hitting her in the face. She shoves back, pushing the maddened elf to the ground and using a paralyzing spell to freeze it in place. She can see Cullen doing battle across the room, using his sword and shield to chop down his enemies. 

Dane howls as he leaps on one, tearing at its throat with teeth and claws as he pins it to the ground, blood speckling across his muzzle. It's not long before the servants are dead, bodies nothing more than macabre corpses coating the ground. Blood drips from Melina's forehead, a sharp wound made from terrible fangs. A burning fire rushes through her veins. Her knees hit the ground, a cry escaping her lips as she struggles to heal the wound and the poison that's running through her.

She can feel a templar's magic, and she recognizes it as Cullen's. It's meant to augment her healing spells, but it's tainted with his own pain and anger, making the fire burn stronger instead. Her vision grows blurry as she clutches her hair in her hands, tugging and screaming as she tries again and again to heal something she doesn't understand.

A different magic washes over her as a warm hand settles on her shoulder. It pushes back the haze in her mind, highlighting where she needs to focus her spell to burn out the poison. "There now, Melina, you're alright," a kind voice whispers.

She looks up and into Alistair's eyes, a breath of relief escaping her lips. She rests her forehead against his, the last of the pain fading rapidly as their two magics combine. "Thank the Maker you're here," she replies. 

She hears the clanking sound of metal on metal and pulls back, eyes wide. Daveth has his hand on Cullen's shoulder, eyes narrowed with anger. "You were supposed to protect her, not make it bloody worse," he growls.

Cullen shoves his hand away, eyes flashing darkly. "We don't have time for this now. If you wish to try to punish me later, then do it. Right now, there's a demon loose."

"Where's Conner?" Alistair asks, frowning as he looks around.

Teagan hangs his head, sorrow emitting from his body. "He's- He's hiding," he whispers.

Isolde falls to her knees, clutching Alistair's arm in her small, pale hands. "Please, Alistair! You can't let them hurt my baby! You owe Eamon more than that, please protect him," she begs, eyes frantic.

His pupils widen as he stares at her, face to face on the ground. "Maker's Breath, Lady Isolde, I-" He looks to Melina, face crinkled in confusion.

"Conner's a mage, my friend," Melina says. "And the demon Cullen speaks of resides in his body."

"Conner's a mage? I don't believe it, I can't. How did this happen?"

Jowan shifts guiltily, grey eyes filled with an emotion she can feel him struggling to hide. "That must be why you hired Anders," he says, shaking his head. "To teach Conner in secret."

"Anders?" Melina asks, heart racing from shock. "Is this where he's been hiding?"

Isolde's eyes narrow as a soft growl comes from low in her throat. "That... man poisoned my husband! It's his fault this has happened! It should be him you are trying to kill, not my little boy," she shouts, voice breaking.

Melina shakes her head, mouth dry. "No, Anders, he would never. He's a  _healer,_ Mi'lady. Healers... we don't... He wouldn't, would he?" she turns to Jowan, lower lip trembling, as she asks the question she's afraid to hear the answer for.

He nods his head, eyes filled with sorrow. "He admitted it to us in the dungeon, Melina. I'm sorry. I know you both trained together under Wynne."

And with that, it feels like her entire world comes crashing down around her. She can hear the others talking but it's a low sound, like buzzing insects, distant and indiscernible. Her heartbeat slows, her throat raw and dry. It's all too much, everything changing all at once. The lost battle at Ostagar. The demons in Kinloch Hold. Losing Wynne.

No, that's not right, she killed Wynne, sacrificed her in the name of her friendship with Jalyn. And now this. It's too much for her mind to wrap around, the idea of Anders poisoning anyone. He was always a bit angry, bitter even, but never a killer. Healers don't murder people, right? They're good, kind people, who want to help, aren't they?

That's what she's always believed. Healers are the ones chosen by the Maker to heal all pain. To break that, to go against it and harm instead; the thought is overwhelming. Her head spins as she sits there, blood from the floor soaking through her robes and staining her skin.  _Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond, for there is no darkness..._ The prayer dies in her heart, fading away, unspoken.

She has no will left to even offer a prayer.

"Miss? Melina?" 

She shakes her head as she hears Alistair's voice calling her name. She turns to him, trying and failing to smile. "I'm sorry, I must have drifted off for a moment. I didn't hear anything you said," she answers, bowing her head with shame.

Morrigan scoffs, the sound sharp in the stillness. "We, or rather I, have a plan to save this child since this fool seems so intent that it must be so," she says, waving her hand in Alistair's direction. 

"So I'm a fool to want to save a child, is it? Well, if I'm a fool, so be it. Better a fool than a cold-hearted bitch," he retorts, eyes narrowed.

"That's enough, both of you," Daveth cuts in. Dark circles line his eyes, and she can tell he's mentally and physically exhausted. 

Leliana bites her lip, fingering her bow with a furrowed brow. "I'm not sure we should trust in such dark magic, Daveth. The Maker forbids it."

Morrigan rolls her eyes, thin arms crossed over her chest. "And you know this for certain, do you? Your Maker has spoken to you directly, has he, and told you that this specific ritual is a forbidden one?" She clicks her tongue, lips twisting into a smirk. "How convenient."

"Shut up, witch," Cullen says with a growl. "We can't really be considering this, can we? This is not sanctioned by the Chantry as approved magic."

"Tell me about this ritual of yours, Lady Morrigan," Melina asks, head tilted to the left. "Please?"

Morrigan's eyes widen in surprise but she nods her head in agreement. "Since you ask so politely, I shall. 'Tis a ritual my mother taught me long ago. It would require lyrium, a... small amount of blood from a willing participant, and templar's powers to augment the spell's power. Then, one of us who is a mage would enter the Fade to do battle with the demon in its own territory. There, and only there, can the demon be banished from the child."

"Blood magic," Cullen says, voice low. "No good can come of a sacrifice."

Morrigan raises an incredulous eyebrow at him. "Pray tell when I spoke of a sacrifice, templar. I said a _willing_ participant. The ritual will not work if they are not willing, and it need not be all of their blood. A large amount, perhaps, but they would yet survive."

Alistair shakes his head, running his fingers through his blood stained hair. "I hate to agree with Ser Cullen, but he's right- blood magic is forbidden."

"Better to slay the child then? Is this Alistair who speaks or the templar?" Morrigan asks.

"I'd say it's common sense," he quips back. "We don't even know if this ritual of yours will work."

"Ha! Do you doubt me or my mother, then?"

"Why not both?" Alistair asks, tone dry.

The harsh sound of skin slapping against skin breaks the the argument as Isolde's hand lashes out, leaving a bright red mark across Alistair's cheek. "We have to try! You can use my blood; if it will save my son then I would gladly give even my life for him. Must I beg? Please, Alistair, save my Conner."

Teagan, puts a hand on her shoulder. "Isolde, we can't ask them-"

"I won't give up on my baby, Teagan, I can't. You can't ask me to, not when I might save him still."

Alistair's hand touches the mark on his face where Isolde slapped him, eyes wide. "Well, I haven't felt that sting in a long time," he remarks, tone soft. "Thanks for such a bitter reminder,  _Lady_   Isolde." He sighs, slowly getting to his feet and turning toward Daveth. "What do you think, my friend?"

Daveth frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose before grunting. "Right, let's do this then. We'll send Melina to the Fade. She'll be less receptive to a demon's plea," he replies, eyes flickering toward Jowan for a brief moment before meeting Melina's gaze. "You up for this, dove?"

Her heart drops to her stomach as she gets to her feet. "I- I will do my best," she replies.

Leliana crosses her heart, eyes closed. "The deep dark before dawn's first light seems eternal, but know that the sun always rises. Though the lands suffer a thousand wrongs, the Maker yet notices the smallest of deeds." She opens her eyes, reaching for Daveth's hand and squeezing it tightly in her own. "I hope you're making the right choice here," she whispers.

Daveth just nods, clutching her hand like a lifeline in the darkness. "Me too, love, me too."

"The Knight-Commander will hear of this, mark my words," Cullen says.

Daveth snorts. "The Knight-commander can sod off."

 

~*~*~

 

The Fade forms around her, bright white and shifting. Small echos of Conner and the Arl race around in circles, crying out, clearly disorientated. Strange, half-sentences that make little to no sense pierce the air, and their pain weighs heavy on Melina's heart. A flash of light behind her and she steels herself as a familiar scent fills the air.

"Ah, I had not expected to return to the Fade so soon. Consider yourself fortunate that I like you well enough to come here, mortal."

Melina turns, recognizing the voice of Izanami. Her eyes widen as she sees the demon back in her natural form; dark hair pulled in an elegant twist atop her head and golden yellow eyes gleaming. Her dress is a faded red with a plunging neckline. There's a strange necklace laced around her neck with symbols Melina doesn't recognize.

Melina frowns. "I wish you liked me less then," she replies sourly, fidgeting with her robes.

"You almost seem to be gaining a sense of humour, mortal. How quaint," Izanami quips.

Melina shakes her head, hand reaching to clutch her Andrastian pendant once again as she walks along the narrow, twisting path. Her head feels full of fog; a slight dizziness clogs her brain. She clutches the pendant tighter, the sharp edges biting into her palm. The pain drives back the fog and she continues walking, ignoring the ghostly images of Conner shouting at her to leave, blaming her for his father's illness.

Izanami walks beside her, her presence quiet, almost still, and she seems to float rather than walk.  The path loops back, shifting through strange portals that make Melina's skin crawls. A question tugs on Melina's mind as they wander the Fade, searching for the demon's central lair. "Why did you want to leave the Fade so bad?" she asks, brow furrowed. "Isn't this your home?"

Izanami chuckles, the sound soft. "Is it?" She purses her lips for a moment, seemingly pondering the question. "Do mortals not wish to leave their homes, to explore other lands?" she asks, answering the question with another question.

"I didn't," Melina answers. "I miss my home. And we don't usually take other's bodies in order to leave," she adds.

Izanami nods, a small smile twisting her lips. "Nor did we, once. But that was so long ago, I can barely remember it myself. Just remember this, my mortal friend, we did not decide this as our fate. It was not we who decided this separation; it was forced upon us."

"I don't understand," Melina replies, brows furrowed.

"No? You will, one day, when He awakens from his slumber."

Melina opens her mouth to ask another question, confused by the vague responses of the demon, when a low growl makes the ground vibrate beneath her feet. She turns, and sees a another demon situated in the center of a unnatural place with twisted columns and peculiar symbols, The air is thick with a dark fog that hovers along the ground, black and sick and smelling of burning sulphur.

Izanami places a hand on her shoulder, eyes narrowed with burning hate. "Be careful, mortal, this one is twisted from its purpose."

Melina takes a deep breath, watching the demon as it laughs in madness. Its skin is tinged a deep purple, body covered in black cloth filled with rips and tears. Horns twist atop its head, long lank of purple hair so dark as to appear almost black falling to its shoulders. A thin, pointy tail pokes up, twitching like a cat's tail would. "Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder," she whispers, holding the Chant of Light close in her heart like a shield against the demon's allure.

The demon laughs, a cold sound that echos strangely. "You think your precious Maker will save you now? Fool," she says. "Look upon me, mortal, for I am the one known as Covet and I have granted the boy's wish. Do you truly think someone as weak as you can defeat me?"

Izanami scoffs, looking down at her fingernails as if she's bored. "Covet, is it? You were to grant wishes, then? A mild form of desire. I would say you failed spectacularly then, as the Arl is hardly well."

"It was a fair deal," Covet growls, teeth bared in a snarl. "Stay out of this. This is not your realm, Choice."

She grins, turning toward Melina and winking. "See? I told you I am a Choice spirit." Izanami chuckles again, before continuing. "Are you ready, mortal?" She holds out a hand, her nails long and dangerously sharp.

Melina gulps but nods her head, placing her chubby hand in hers. She closes her eyes, drawing up her mana. She can feel it mingling with Izanami's, blending together to make something more powerful, and directs it toward the demon called Covet. Covet lets out a high-pitched screech, and the sound pierces Melina's eardrums, a deafening sound that hurts to listen to.

"Wait, please! I can offer you so much more than Choice! I can offer you power, wealth, I can teach you magic beyond your imagination, please," Covet cries out, black blood dripping from its lip.

Melina tightens her jaw, eyes narrowed. "I do not accept," she replies, voice lower than its ever been. "Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written," she whispers, sending out another strong bolt of mana. "I will not bend to another demon's will," she says as Covet screams, its body melting into the ground in horrific fashion.

Izanami sighs, shaking her head. "I thought we agreed I was a spirit, not a demon," she says, slowly fading from view. 

After she's gone, and Melina stands in that strange place alone, tears fall from her eyes. "I will never see you as anything but a demon," she replies, even though Izanami is gone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW MUCH SMUT AT END OF CHAPTER. Holy wow, I was not expecting to write detailed smut for this story but Maroth decided it would be so. I nearly died writing it, guys. haha I don't normally write smut, but I did do research (i.e asked friends who were experienced in the ways of actually doing this sort of thing irl) to make sure it was accurate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art at the end is by the amazing http://tamarandom.deviantart.com/ / https://www.facebook.com/tamsrandomart/?fref=ts and everyone should commission her. This is just a little practice sketch and her art is amazeballs.

"I can't believe you went through with that! After everything you've said to me about blood magic, and you actually went through with that ritual!" Jowan's voice is high-pitched, almost frantic, as he waves her hands around, an accusatory glare in his eyes.

Maroth watches the two mages with Jalyn next to him. The sun is low in the sky, sinking behind the tiny houses of Redcliffe village. The wooden plank footpath is wobbly beneath his feet, and he worries the stilts it sits upon might crack, sending them all crashing into the lake. Friggin' human genius, building houses out onto the lake.

The moment his companions had returned, Jowan had dragged Melina away from the others, fire in his eyes. One look from Daveth and Maroth had followed, in part to keep it from escalating; but mostly because he's a nosy bugger, and he knows it.

Melina looks away, staring into the calm waters of the lake. A fish swims buy, and her eyes follow it, a sigh passing between her lips. "What would you have had me do then, Jowan? Should we have killed Conner?"

Jowan looks at her, eyes flashing. "We could have gone back to the Circle, got more-"

"There wasn't time!" Melina's reply is soft, but firm, pain laced through each word. Her eyes hold unshed tears, glistening in the dying light.

Jowan shakes his head, and Melina's shoulders slump in defeat. "You're a hypocrite, you know," the man accuses. "I promised Jalyn I would never do blood magic again, and now this."

"You didn't have to participate," Melina whispers, hanging her head. Her curls tumble around her face, hiding it from view.

Disgust fills his voice as he replies. "As if the Wardens would allow that, after  _you_ agreed to it. You hated me so much for even dabbling; I don't get how you can reconcile this."

Melina turns away, glancing at Jalyn with a self-deprecating smile twisting her lips. "Don't assume I don't feel the same way about myself, Jowan. I should have volunteered for tranquility long before I undertook my Harrowing." 

A look of horror crosses Jowan's face as his fellow mage walks away, her footsteps fading as she follows the winding, rickety path back to the center of the village.  

Jalyn frowns, hand hovering over her chest. "Why does that hurt?" she asks, voice flat.

Maroth and Jowan both turn to her, and Maroth feels his heart leap. "W'at's that, cousin?" he asks, bordering on hopeful.

"I- do not like that she is in pain. It hurts," she whispers. 

Jowan's footsteps cause Maroth to turn, watching the mage carefully. Jowan's hand reaches out, resting against Jalyn's cheek with a sad look crumpling his face. "I don't know whether I should be glad you can feel at all, or sad that this is your first strong emotion, love," he replies.

Maroth narrows his eyes, looking off into the distance. The castle looms, ominous, against the the darkening sky. The moon is just barely beginning to become visible, even with the soft sunbeams still in the lowest corners of the great, greying blue expanse. "Both seem 'bout right, don't they?" His heart feels heavy. He wishes Aneirin were here. His magic was strong, tightly controlled. He'd have known another way to fix this, right? He'd have known a solution, if only he were alive. 

His gaze shifts to Jalyn, her face blank again, as if whatever emotion she had been feeling has already retreated. He closes his eyes, pain a sharp thing in his chest. How many times had he sat with Nessy and told her stories about his feisty mage cousin and the trouble they'd get themselves into? A memory flashes in his mind, as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.

_The afternoon sun is high in the sky and his father is rushing him out the door to do chores. Cyrion's face is turned down in a  disappointed frown. "W'at I'd do to get such a lazy son?" he grumbles, arms crossed over his chest._

_Maroth shrugs. "Sorry," he mumbles, grabbing his worn leather shoes from by the door. He stuffs his foot in one and yelps in pain. "W'at in the void?"_

_"Watch yer language, son," Cyrion admonishes. "W'at's wrong?"_

_"My shoe shrank," Maroth replies, frowning. "Or maybe my foot got big o'er night?"_

_A giggle makes them both turn, and Maroth's frown deepens. "W'at're you laughin' fer?" he asks Jalyn._

_She clutches her sides as she doubles over with laughter. "Ya fell fer it! Ya big dummy, yer shoes didn't shrink. I stuffed part of yer shirt in them."_

_"Part of..." His face blanches as he reaches inside the shoe, pulling out a piece of deep green fabric. "Ya ripped up my best shirt," he whines._

_Jalyn wipes a tear from her eye as she straightens. "Worth it though," she quips.  
_

Maroth's eyelids flutter open as he looks to his cousin, the strange sunburst brand a dark mark on her forehead. "Bloody thing," he mumbles. "You, Jowan, innit?"

Jowan startles before nodding. Maroth grunts, eyes narrowed. "Is there a way to get that blasted thing off her skin?"

His eyes widen, lips parted. "You mean the brand?" He frowns, fingertips brushing against the ugly mark. "I don't think so. But, if you'd have asked me a few weeks ago if tranquility could be cured, I'd have told you the same."

"Never should've let the friggin' templars take her," he mutters, shaking his head.

At this, Jalyn turns to him. "You were too young. They would have killed you," she says, voice as bland as Shianni's porridge. 

He furrows his brow, turning away. "Still shoulda tried," he mutters. "C'mon, nothin' ta be done about it now. Let's get back to the others. Besides, I'm hungrier than shite."

 

~*~*~

 

The moon hangs low in the sky, a half-crescent smiling down at him. Maroth takes a deep breath, the smell of fish still lingering in the air, even though they're camped outside the village. He shivers, the cold breeze a sure sign of coming winter. Zevran sits beside him, smelling of leathers and some strange, foreign cologne that smells of heavy spices. He leans his face into the curve of the assassin's neck, breathing deeply, before darting his tongue to lick at the hollow of his throat. 

Zevran's chuckle is low, a soft sound in the still of the night air. "Ah, mi amante, I did not realize you were such an exhibitionist," he murmurs, wetting his full lips.

Maroth quirks an eyebrow as he nibbles Zevran's ear. "I don't really no w'at ya just said, friend, but it sounds sexy." 

"Which part did you not understand?" Zevran asks, voice hitching in his throat.

"Most of it," Maroth admits. He pulls in a bit of skin from Zevran's neck, grazing his teeth along the flesh until the man's eyelids flutter close. "The Antivan bit, an' w'atever that long word was ya said."

Zevran swallows, lips parted, before replying. "I called you "mi amante", which means "my lover." Exhibitionist is one who enjoys public sex or foreplay, which seems appropriate, no?" He lets out a soft moan, leaning back on his elbows.

 

"Maker's breath, can't you two do that in a tent or something?" Alistair says as he approaches, returning from the makeshift loo they had dug. "Some things should be kept private, you know."

A soft chuckle emits from Zevran's throat as he eyes the would be templar. "Are you offering yours, my friend? We could show you just how much fun you can have outside your Chantry, yes?"

Alistair's cheeks turn bright red, even in the soft moonlight. "I- uh... That's not what I meant," he stutters.

Maroth grins, winking at the warden. "I've never been with a shem before. Could be fun, right? Yer a pretty one, with those blushin' cheeks of yers."

"Uh.. I'm not really, I mean, I like-"

Zevran smiles, shaking his head. "Do not worry, my friend, we only jest. I can tell straight away your preferences. You prefer women, no? Perhaps blondes with curly hair and wide, innocent eyes?"

"Melina's like a  _sister_ to me, don't be so crude," Alistair huffs, crossing his arms across his chest. 

Maroth shrugs, eyes gleaming in the soft moonlight. "Well, you shems are into some weird shit, yeah? Is sister a weird kink fer yer kind?"

Zevran lets out a strangled sound that sounds like a cross between a laugh and a snort. "Well, you know what they say-"

"You two are absurd," Cullen interrupts, crawling out from his tent, lip curled. "And obscene."

The assassin chuckles, nodding his head with a smile. "I have been called much worse, it's true," he agrees.

Alistair groans, running his fingers through his hair. "What are you doing awake? It's not time to switch watch, is it?" he asks, ignoring the two elves and meeting Cullen's eyes.

Cullen shrugs, his templar clothes wrinkled. "Couldn't sleep," he replies, a haunted look in his deep brown eyes. Dark circles stand in stark relief against the pallid greyness of his skin. He rubs a hand along the back of his neck, lips cast in a straight, hard line. 

"Ya look like ya haven't slept in months," he says, leaning back against Zevran's chest.

The templar shrugs, letting out a slow sigh as he looks toward the treeline. His gaze is far away, almost vacant, as he sits there in silence for a moment. An owl hoots, startling him from his thoughts, and his hand reaches instinctively for his sword before he sighs again, brows furrowing. "I suppose it's hard to sleep while you're being tortured," he replies, tone dry of humour. "Between the blood mages and the demons, sleep came in the form of a few stolen moments when I succumbed to exhaustion, only to be forced awake again minutes later by a knife along my skin or a demon's cruel whisper in my ear."

Alistair sits down on a nearby log, putting his hands toward the fire. "I can't even imagine what that must have been like," he admits, tone soft. "That must be why Redcliffe was so hard for you."

Cullen's jaw tightens, his face a dark shadowy mask. "That ritual was a mistake. Connor is still a mage. Now that he's been possessed, he's twice as vulnerable. He'll never be free. It would have been kinder to slay him when he was unable to realize what was happening."

"Doesn't he deserve the chance to try?" 

Cullen scoffs at Alistair's hope-filled question. "At what cost, warden? Who's life in the future are you willing to sacrifice on the off chance one boy might not be possessed by demons?"

Maroth grunts, clutching the grass in his fist. "Wat're you two idiots fightin' fer, anyway? W'at's done is friggin' done. Ain't there-"

His sentence is cut off as a high pitched screech pierces the air. His skin crawls as vaporous clouds form around them, strange demonesque creatures forming from the shadows. Pointed ears protrude from hairless scalps, skin rotting and sickly brown. Their lip-less mouths hold more razor sharp teeth than any mouth should hold and another shrill sound emits from them in unison.

"W'at in the Maker's name... ." Fear fills his entire being as Maroth leaps to his feat, reaching for his speed with lightening quick reflexes. 

"Darkspawn," Alistair says with wide eyes. "Blast."

The creatures attack viciously, their sharp blades coming from a strange device on their hands. The others quickly emerge from their tents, half-dressed with fear-stricken faces.

He uses his spear to strike at the strange darkspawn, and it feels weird not to feel Melina's magic in the air, or hear the Lay Sister offering a prayer as she fires her arrows. As a claw rips into his side, scraping aginst his rib bones, he starts to wonder if it wasn't a fool idea to send those two off when they still might have need of their skills. 

He swings his spear in a downward arch across a darkspawn throat as he remembers Alistair insisting it was "of utmost importance" to find Andraste's ashes to cure the Arl.But time was running out, and Daveth wasn't willing to waste more time on an alley that wasn't obligated to help them through the treaties. So, off Melina had gone with Leliana, the dog, and his cousin in search of some Brother Genitivi. He only hopes it wasn't a mistake to separate them. 

They make short work of the darkspawn ambush, and Maroth strains his ear to eavesdrop  on the two wardens, whispering off to themselves. 

"It was like the Archdemon  _saw_ us. What does that mean?"

"It means we're probably friggin' screwed, if it can find us anywhere."

"Duncan said this could happen, that they could sense us, too."

"Wonderful. Thanks for warning me about that." Daveth glances over and catches Maroth's eye before clearing his throat. "Right then, since we're all awake now, might as well move out. Doubt any of use are gettin' any sleep after that. It's a long road to Orzammar."

 

~*~*~

Maroth's long, forest green cloak ripples in the bitter mountain breeze. His toes seem to cry out in protest as the cold snow seeps through his worn leather boots, soaking the socks thoroughly. He draws the hood over his head, clutching it tight across his throat as they trek through the winding mountain pass. His tough drake scale armour offers minimal protection against the harsh wind, and the thick padding underneath almost seems non-existent in the cold. He grumbles to himself about the weather, earning an amused look from Daveth.

"I thought all elves loved being out in nature," Daveth says, a sly grin turning his lips.

Maroth glares, eyes narrowing. "Maybe them Dalish like this shite, but I ain't no damn frolickin' tree humper. I'm from the city. Where it's friggin' warm."

Daveth chokes on his laughter, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. "So, you're telling me you don't frolic? At all? Not even a little, when no one's watchin'?"

"Keep it up, shem," Maroth grumbles. "It's too damn cold fer this shite."

Daveth clicks his tongue, shaking his head with a glint in his eye. "I was expectin' a more clever retort from ya, my friend."

"Too friggin' cold," he replies. "Blasted mountain snow. This dwarven city yer takin' us to better be warmer than this shite."

"I hear lava flows throughout the city, keeping the entire place quite warm," Zevran chirps, smiling as the wind blows his hair.

Alistair nods, grinning as Maroth widens his eyes. "Yep, that's what Duncan told me. Let's just hope it never erupts. **"**

"You lot are havin' me on, right? Lava?"

Jowan shrugs, pulling the cloak tight around his throat. "They didn't really teach us much about Orzammar back at the circle. But wouldn't it be dangerous to have lava right in your city like that?"

Cullen makes a grunting noise, halfway between amused and annoyed. "It's true enough, all right. Maker only knows why they want to live down there like that, but it's true."

"Bloody void," Maroth mumbles, shaking his head. "Should'a stayed in Denerim."  He glances toward Wynne, her wispy grey hair blowing in the wind. "Oiy, biddy, yer probably cold, yeah? Ya doin' alright?"

Wynne cuts him a cold glare, pale blue eyes flashing with annoyance. "What a barbed tongue you have. Do you always speak to your elders this way?"

"I guess yer air of superiority keeps ya warm then, yeah?" he shoots back, shaking his head.

A loud caw shakes the branches of an overhead tree, sending a pile of snow falling down atop Maroth's head. "Bloody friggin' Maker-cursed snow shite," he says with a growl, shiver fiercely under the now soaked cloak.

"Bandits are up ahead," Morrigan replies, hovering in crow form above them. She effortlessly floats down, shifting back into human form as she lands. "We should prepare for battle."

Daveth frowns, scratching his chin. "Is there no way around 'em?"

Morrigan shrugs her thin shoulders, her long dark hair blowing freely. Her yellow eyes gleam like the sun, and she almost seems to embrace the cold, with no cloak to keep her warm. "There is another path, 'tis true, but t'will add a few hours onto our journey. Surely, you do not fear battle, Warden?"

Alistair grunts, eyes narrowed. "Is there anything you fear, Morrigan?"

Daveth cuts them both off before they can start bickering again, much to Maroth's relief. "I don't fear battle, but it's cold and we're all tired. I think I'd druther reach Orzammar without any further issues, right? Come on then, show us the way around the bandits, Morrigan. A few extra hours wlking is better than a few extra hours fighting and risking the wounds."

 

~*~*~

 

A sharp, shooting pain makes Maroth flinch, biting his lip to keep from crying out. "I thought ya said this didn't hurt?" He grumbles the question, looking over his shoulder at Zevran. The small tent keeps the snow out, but casts his lover's face in dark shadows.

A slow, sly smile spreads across Zevran's face as he moves the candle closer to Maroth's ass. "Hush. I said it would not hurt  _much_ , mi amante. Do not squirm so or the design will not turn out so well." He carefully takes his needle and dips it in more ink, brow furrowed in concentration. 

"W'at're ya drawin' anyway?" He cranes his neck, trying to see the tattoo design.

Zevran frowns, pinching his butt hard, and Maroth lets out a sharp yelp. "You must stop moving so much. You will see when it is done, no?"

Maroth frowns, resting his head against his bedroll. "Better not be a friggin' heart or somethin'."

"I would not be so sentimental," Zevran replies, tone bare of amusement.

Eventually, he grows numb to the tiny pricks of pain shooting up through his bum and into his lower back muscles. It isn't long before Zevran lets out a satisfied sigh, running his hand across Maroth's bum with a grin. "And your first tattoo is complete, my friend. You may now look at my fabulous handiwork."

Maroth cranes his neck, eager to see. His face falls when he sees the figure of a hooded wolf in black ink on his rear end, a perfect silhouette. He narrows his eyes eyes, staring into Zevran's golden brown orbs with his lip curled.

Zevran blinks innocently at him, pouting his lips together. "What? You do not like the image I chose for you? I think it is quite a befitting depiction of you, sneaking about in the shadows as you do."

"Wonderful," he replies. "Yer such a witty assassin."

Zevran smacks the tattoo and a stinging sensation shoots its way up Maroth's body. "Ow! W'at ya go an' do that fer?"

He grins, winking. "It is part of the ritual, of course. Sets the ink as it were," he deadpans. "I would be careful about sitting, however. Your ass will be sore for a bit, even as delectable as it is."

"Maybe I should make yers sore, to match," he grumbles, rolling over with a wince. "C'mere."

Zevran raises an eyebrow. "You wish for sex now? Not that I mind, but you should probably rest," he replies, crawling towards him on all fours, despite his words to the contrary.

Maroth snorts, grabbing his arm, and pulling him down. "No. I'm sore an' tired. I want to go to sleep, an' it's cold."

"Ah, perhaps you should ask the Wardens for extra blankets?"

"Shut up, I'm tryin' to sleep," Maroth grumbles, rolling over to rest his head against Zevran's chest.

Zevran shifts, trying to lean up on his elbows. "Ah, I am happy to warm your bed while we are... active in it, but if you wish to sleep, I should retire to my own tent," he says, gently pushing at Maroth's arm.

Maroth leans up, a frown turning his lips down. "W'at? You'll fuck me, but yer not willin' to sleep here?"

"Ah, that is the the short of it, as you so crudely put it, yes. Besides, I am an assassin. How can you be so sure I will not assassinate you in your sleep?" His tone is teasing, soft, but Maroth can hear an undertone of uncertainty in it.

He scoffs, resting on one elbow. "I'd like to see ya try," Maroth quips, brushing his fingertips across Zevran's cheek. "Are ya worried I don't trust ya? I do. Now sleep, love."

Zevran's eyes widen and he shoves Maroth's hand away. "Stop. Why do you insist on bringing such needless complications into this? If you are not satisfied with our arrangement, perhaps you should find another to have your fun with."

"W'at're ya on about now?" Maroth pauses, realizing what he had called the man. "Shite, yer fine with being my lover but nothin' _too sentimental_ , is that w'at this is?"

Zevran scowls, reaching for his clothes. "I am born of a whore and bred as an assassin. If you are looking for someone to replace your wife, you are looking at the wrong man." His tone is cold as he pulls his tunic over his head, and Maroth feels his heart skip a beat.

"Alright, ya've made yer point, assassin." He wets his lips, heart racing.

"Good. Now, goodnight." Zevran turns, starting to crawl toward the entrance of the tent. Maroth's hand darts out, grabbing Zevran's wrist. He runs the pad of his thumb over the man's pulse point, tugging him back toward his bed. "I guess you'll have ta warm me up another way," he murmurs, capturing the assassin's lips with his own.

He grips the back of Zevran's head with his hand, fingers tangling in his hair. The assassin lets out a low moan, their tongues dancing together. "Mi amante, I..."

Maroth cuts his words off with another kiss, pulling him down toward the bedroll. He trails hot kisses down Zevran's neck, licking and nipping at the skin as he goes. Gently, he pulls up Zevran's tunic, grazing his teeth across his nipples. Zevran lets out a shiver, eyelids fluttering close. "Ah, Tabris, you do have a way of persuading a man," he whispers, breathless.

He gives a tug to Zevran's breaches, pulling them over the man's rounded ass. Maroth  lowers his head,  flicking his tongue delicately across the head of Zevran's erection, and then lower, licking his shaft in broad strokes. His lips are hot as they wrap around his cock, sucking and licking as his fingers massage the stretch of skin between Zevran's shaft and ass.

Maroth flicks the tip of his tongue along the underside of his length, fingers still deftly rubbing circles, grinning to himself as he hears his lover moan. 

"Ah, más," Zevran moans, clutching the grass with his hands. He sucks in air through his teeth as Maroth  nips as his inner thigh. "More, yes, there."

Maroth snakes his tongue down, teasing the outer rim of his ass. "Are you going to fuck me or tease me, mi amante?" Zevran says, looking down at him with hooded eyes.

"Well, teasin's more fun, yeah?" He grins, blowing against the tip of Zevran's erection, which makes the man throw his head back and moan again.

"You Fereldans and your torture," Zevran whispers. "I like it."

Maroth grins, giving the underside of his shaft one last flick with his tongue. He presses himself against Zevran's entrance, sliding in gently with a practiced motion. Zevran's eyes flutter shut at the delicious pressure of being filled and he rakes his nails across Maroth's chest. Maroth sucks in a breath, grinning.

He thrusts in and out, the tip of his erection sliding against that point deep inside his lover, pleasure spreading through his body in waves.

Zevran moans, closing his eyes as he moves. "Maroth," he whispers and the thief's heart flips at the sound of his name coming from the other man's lips.

Sweet pressure grows in the base of his shaft, but he holds off, delaying his orgasm as his pulse races. He looks up into Zevran's golden brown gaze, heart pounding, as his body stiffens and clenches, a slow buildup of pleasure as he moves. He grabs Zevran's hand, entwining their fingers and stretching his arm up to rest above his head, pulling the muscles taunt. He looks into his eyes, their hands clasped tight together.

When it starts to become too much, he tilts his head back and whispers Zevran's name as he lets himself get swept away by the ecstasy of his release.  Stars burst across his vision as he comes. He feels Zevran letting go as well, and the sensation doubles the pleasure for him.

Maroth falls forward, resting his cheek against Zevran's chest. His heart is still pounding in his chest, his lower abdomen sticky with fluids. "Well, I'm warm now, right?" he mumbles, pressing a kiss against Zevran's chest.

Zevran sighs, reaching for a towel. "You tricked me," he accuses. "Now even I am too tired to move."

Maroth shrugs his shoulders as he grabs the towel from Zevran's hand, fingertips brushing. "Maybe, a little. Yer free to go, whenever ya like," he says, not meeting the other man's gaze.

Zevran rolls over, pulling the blanket over his nude form. "I will stay, just this once," he relents. 

Maroth hides his grin, laying an arm across his body. "Right. Besides, it's cold, yeah? It's, w'at do ya call it? Practical to double up, this far south in the mountains."

"Mmmm," is Zevran's sleepy reply.

Maroth closes his eyes, breathing in the sent of leather, spices, and sex. "Right, practical."

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Leliana sings is a rewritten version of the song "Be Thou my Vision", Chantry-fied.

The road to Denerim is long and arduous. The sun is hot on the back of Jalyn's neck as she walks dutifully by Melina's side. Leliana scouts ahead, watching for danger with her bow in hand, her choppy red hair blowing in the afternoon breeze. Jalyn watches as Melina's fingertips dance along the head of the mabari hound, gently petting it as she walks.

A flicker of emotion connects with her, slamming into her chest and stealing her breath. She closes her eyes, trying to shut it out, and a woman's face appears in her mind. Long, raven hair and pale blue skin like the sky on a sunny day. Her eyes flash gold specks and she smiles, a soothing aura emitting from her hands.

Jalyn's eyes snap open, widen as she tries to put together what she's seen. The harder she focuses on it, the more it trickles out, like water through a sieve. Soon, she's forgotten it entirely, the moment replace by the gentle warmth of emotion as she reaches for Melina's arm. "Hey, shem, I'm thirsty," she mumbles.

Melina trips over her own feet, stumbling as she stares at Jalyn. "You... You called me shem," she replies, a smile splitting across her face as she reaches for the flask of water.

Jalyn shrugs, her emotions still fleeting and hesitant, weak and distant in her mind. "Thank you," she says, grabbing the cool flask in her hand. Her voice is caught somewhere between the blank monotone of the Tranquil and the Denerim accent she held in her youth. After so many years spent training in the circle, most of the accent had disappeared, only coming out when she was angry or upset. Now, it snakes its way back in, slipping out through her like a shadowy remnant of her past.

Leliana hums a small tune before smiling over at them. Her full lips part and a soft, high note floats from her throat. "Be thou my battle shield, sword for this fight; be thou my hope, against this blight. You are my haven, as I depart: raise thou me skyward, O Maker of my heart."

Melina returns the smile, and Jalyn recognizes the song as one of her friend's favourites.  "Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise," Melina sings, adding her off-key tone to Leliana's more musical voice. "Thou mine one truth, now and for always: thou and Andraste, first in my heart, O' merciful Maker, my treasure thou art."

Leliana's grin widens, her bright blue eyes gleaming. "You are very religious, yes? You have faith in our Maker?"

Melina nods, fingers hovering against the metal chain of her pendant. "Ah, yes, Sister."

"You have been quiet since we left the others. Is something amiss?" she inquires, one eyebrow raised.

Melina bites her lips, glancing at Jalyn before replying. "I- I have never been without a templar nearby," she admits. "I am..."

"Worried?" Leliana supplies.

"Afraid. If I am corrupted, or a demon takes hold of my mind, I would be left without being struck down. There's no telling how much damage I could do, before they found me," Melina whispers, staring up at the clouds. "We mages can be very dangerous, without someone to watch over us. Even then... Sometimes not even the templars can stop us."

Images of Kinloch Hold flash in Jalyn's mind; the ravaged corpses and blood-stained floors mingled with demon corrupted pestilence coating the walls. The horror of demons and abominations roaming a place of learning... She had never felt safe there, but this was more than that. There had been a feeling of pure terror in the air, that even Jalyn could feel. 

A small frown turns the corners of Jalyn's lips down, her eyes flashing. "Uldred was always a fool, and always dangerous. Not all mages are like he was," she says, her voice somewhere between dull and expressive.

Leliana nods in agreement, not making eye contact with the elven girl. "The Maker has room in His heart for all, you know. Not all mages are dangerous, I think. I do not fear you, for example. I can tell you are a kind, noble spirit." 

Melina's cheeks turn bright red at the words. "You- You do not speak like any Sister of the cloth I've ever met," Melina accuses. "And I am hardly nobility, Sister."

"Please, call me Leliana. I think that the lowest peasant can have the most noble spirit and it will always shine through. It is this nobility of spirit that you have, Melina," she replies, shrugging her slender shoulders. "And I can feel the Maker in my heart; I know His love and can feel it everywhere I go. He has love for all things, I'm sure of it. For every bird and insect, for ever elf and mage and- and dwarves, even, as well. All have the Maker's love, if they would only receive it."

Melina pauses for a moment, the sun shining down on the top of her head. "That is.. a controversial viewpoint of a Sister, even a Lay Sister. I- I suppose I hope you're right, in this." 

"Full of shit, she is," Jalyn quips, eyes widening as soon as the words leave her lips. "I- I apologize for my outburst. It was inappropriate."

Leliana stands still a moment before letting out a soft chuckle. "Well, I can tell you were quite the feisty mage before you were made tranquil, yes? I take it you do not believe in the Maker?"

Jalyn doesn't answer right away, continue to walk along the worn dirt path. "I do not believe or disbelieve, now. If you're asking how I felt before the tranquility, then the answer would probably not be much different. I believed, I just didn't care for Him much."

"You- What? How can you believe in our Maker and not  _care for him_? I don't understand what you mean at all," Leliana replies.

Jalyn's eyes are blank, face still and expressionless. "I don't know how to explain it, now. I felt He had abandoned us, left us to a terrible fate, both the elves and the mages. I was angry with Him."

Leliana scoffs, face pinched in a tight scowl. "Of all the- ! And how do you feel now?"

"Now? I feel nothing, of course." 

Melina sighs, the sound weighted. "Anders once said that tranquility was worse than death," she whispers.

Jalyn turns to her, unblinking. "I remember this. I... do not wish to die, though. It's odd, the tiny brushes of emotion I've been feeling. It's... ," Jalyn pauses, struggling with her thoughts. "Uncomfortable. Tranquility is easy, calm. Emotions are chaotic and hard. Why would anyone chose them over peace?"

"Emotions are what make us who we are," Leliana replies. "Love, especially, is an important thing to feel. Did you not love? It's such a wonderful thing, fills you up and excites you. Without love, life would not be worth continuing."

Jalyn tilts her head, drawing her lower lip in between her white, slightly crooked teeth. "Love... I believe I did feel love, before. It was for love that I made this choice."

Melina clenches her fists as Jalyn watches her, unblinking. "Enough. I don't want to talk about this anymore," she says, voice soft as she furrows her brow.

"As you wish. I am making you uncomfortable, I'm sorry. I will stop."

She lets out a heavy sigh, shaking her head. "I hate this," she grumbles, a dark cloud rolling over her face. "It should have been me."

"That's what I was tryin' to prevent," Jalyn whispers, low enough that Melina can't hear it. 

Dane suddenly growls low in his throat, hackles on end and teeth bared in a ferocious snarl. A large black bear stands in front of them, skin rotting and sick with the taint. Its eyes glow a deep red, saliva dripping from its mouth in a thick foam. The smell of dying flesh, aging mold, and fresh blood hits her hard, turning her stomach as she stands still, watching it with caution. 

It roars loudly, a terrifying sound that shakes the very earth. Dane leaps toward the beast, ready to tear at it with teeth and claws. She watches Melina pull her mana from the Fade, narrowing her concentration toward the beast. She whispers a spell to hold the blighted bear still, crushing its life in a magical prison. Leliana furrows her brow as she fires arrow after arrow into its thick, decomposing hide, and Melina uses her magic to catch the tips of the arrows aflame.

Jalyn's eyes dart around and she sees a few medium sized rocks nearby. She grabs them, bundling them up in her robes and throwing one, hitting the beast on the nose at it swipes a paw at Dane. Dane yelps, the sound piercing the air. Melina eyes widen as she meets Jalyn's eyes, sweat pouring down her face. Jalyn throws another rock, and another, pelting the beast with all of her strength.

Melina summons a small swarm of stinging insects, directing them toward the bear. They bite and sting at its face, blinding it as it roars in pain, unable to see to attack Dane further. The mabari almost seems to grin in response as he leaps toward the bear's throat, tearing it out with his teeth.

Melina lets herself fall to her knees, exhaustion making her body sag. "Maker's breath," she whispers. "That poor bear." 

Dane limps over to her, panting. He licks her face, nudging her with his great head, and whimpering. "I'll be alright, boy. Here, let me heal you," she says. A soft pinkish blue light covers the hound. "There's a good boy, come on. We have a long ways to go yet, and I would rather not camp on the road with it just being us."

Leliana nods, pulling her choppy red hair back into a low ponytail. "Perhaps you wish the templar were here?" she adds, tone teasing and playful.

Melina's cheeks turn bright red as she gets to her feet. "I- I have no idea what you mean, of course. Cullen and I, it's not like that at all. Please don't say that," she replies, words tumbling together in a rush.

The Sister raises one eyebrow, shock colouring her face. "Cullen? I- I meant Alistair, but it seems my perception is not as good as I thought, no? You care for this Cullen, despite his hatred of mages? How odd."

"He doesn't- He's been through a lot, you wouldn't understand. They tortured him, and he's scarred now. But there's still that gentleness underneath the pain and anguish he feels. You don't know him like I do."

"I thought you said it wasn't like that at all?" Leliana chuckles, shaking her head. "No, do not worry. Your secret is safe with me, yes? Yes. Come along, we should hurry as you say." She looks toward Dane and grabs a piece of cheese from her pocket, tossing it toward the hound. "You are such a handsome dog. I think that every time I look at you. Here, have a bite to eat for defending us so well."

 

~*~*~

 

A rank smell wafts from the back of Brother Genitivi's small home. Jalyn runs her fingertips across the door to the back room, the wood splintered and rough against her skin. She reaches for the handle as Melina and Leliana question Weylon, a strange sense of curiosity pawing at her in flickering waves.

"Hey, you! You can't go in there, what're you doing?" Weylon asks, tone harsh and demanding.

Jalyn turns to him, face neutral. "There is a strange smell. It reminds me of corpses."

Weylon's expression grows dark, eyes narrowing in burning anger. "You should leave," he warns, voice low. "And keep your pet tranquil on a tighter leash."

Melina frowns at his words, hands fidgeting with her tangled curls. "She isn't a pet, don't say that," she admonishes. "Jalyn, are you sure? Corpses, truly?"

Leliana takes a few steps back, hand reaching for her bow. "I thought you were acting suspicious. Tell me, what really awaits for us at the docks of Lake Calenhad? A trap?"

A slow grins spreads across his face as flames bursts from his fingertips. "I suppose I no longer need to keep up this charade," he whispers, throwing a fireball toward Jalyn.

"NO!" Melina screams the word, throwing up a barrier spell around Jalyn the protects her from the worst of the blast.

Leliana grabs an arrow in a blur of speed that Jalyn had not believed possible, knocking it on her bow and sending it straight through the mages neck. He falls to his knees, blood pouring from the wound. "You... must not... go. I must... protect... Andraste... ." he whispers, words trailing off as he falls further, laying face down in his own blood.

Jalyn's heart thumps rapidly beneath her breast as small tendrils of fear slither inside her. Melina's hands are cool against her face as the other woman checks her for wounds. "Maker, Jalyn, are you alright?"

She nods, closing her eyes. "That was... alarming," she admits.

"I'm glad you're safe now," Melina replies.

"Me, too," Jalyn whispers, eyes opening.

Leliana hums low in her throat, returning from the back room with a heavy sigh. "I believe the real Weylon is dead," she mutters absentmindedly. "It looks like Brother Genitivi has gone to a place called Haven."

Melina moves over, peering at the small journal the sister is carrying. "Ah, we should get this information to the Wardens, then."

Leliana frowns, blue eyes flashing. "What? You're joking, yes? We must go to Haven at once. What if Brother Genitivi is in danger?"

"But, Daveth said to bring what we found to him first," Melina replies, shaking her head slowly. "We'd be disobeying orders if we went there ourselves."

"He could be dead by the time the Wardens are able to get there!"

Melina chews her bottom lip, pacing in a tight line with her brow furrowed. She wrings her hands, mumbling under her breath. "Shem?" Jalyn asks, shifting in place.

"I'm scared," she admits. "But Brother Genitivi... We have to help him, right? We can't risk letting him die just because I'm afraid."

"The righteous stand before the darkness, and the Maker shall guide their hand." Leliana offers her a small smile. "We won't be alone. The Maker is with us. He will guide our steps, to protect Andraste's ashes."

Jalyn turns, staring at the corpse of the dead pretend Weylon. She can't help but think, as she watches the blood congeal, that the Sister's words sounded awfully close to the dead mage's.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T/W for torturing and very dark themes.

The smell of stale piss and ale permeates the air as Maroth steps over a pile of vomit, lip curled in disgust. “Well, ain’t this a charmin’ spot. Seen nicer taverns in the back alleys of Denerim,” he grumbles, looking around for a clean seat.

A woman with soft orange hair greets them, lips turned up in a sunny smile. “Welcome to Tapsters! I’m Corra. What can I get ya?”

Maroth exchanges a look a with Daveth, the rank air making his stomach roll. “Got anythin’ that doesn’t taste like vomit?” he asks, brow raised.

She grins, gap toothed. “Depends on your coin, friend.”

Daveth shakes his head, a regretful sigh escaping his lips. “Sadly, not enough to waste on gettin’ drunk. Alistair would have both our heads.”

“Alistair needs ta learn to have some fun,” Maroth replies.

A grunt makes them both turn. “I heard that, you know,” Alistair says, frowning. “I know how to have fun. I’ve even gotten drunk before.”

Zevran snorts, lips quirking into a playful smirk. “Off a single glass of wine, no doubt.”

“He-ey!”

Wynne nods her head toward the barkeep, fingering her coin purse. “I’ll take a glass of your best wine, actually. Have it delivered to our table, if you please.”

“Of course!”

Maroth raises an eyebrow at the old woman. “You drink? Huh. Never woulda figured that.”

Jowan stares at her, eyes wide. “Me neither,” he adds, shaking his head. “They never let us have wine at the circle.”

Wynne peers down her nose at him. “Maybe not you, child, but the senior Enchanters are allowed a few luxuries.”

Maroth takes a seat in one of the chairs, frowning hard. “Bloody friggin’ chairs are too short,” he says.

Zevran chuckles, leaning against the wall behind him. “Well, they are made for the stout folk, my friend. I doubt they see many taller people here.”

“You’re complainin’? Just imagine how us humans feel,” Daveth quips, grinning.

“Did ya just call me short, shem?” Maroth asks, shifting in his seat.

Daveth gives up trying to get comfortable and finally stands up, leaning against the heavy stone chair instead. “Wouldn’t dream of it, wolfy.”

Alistair chokes on the glass of water the tavern wench hands him. “Wolfy? Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” Cullen says, sighing. “No, thank you, miss,” he says to the woman, staring at the strange yellow coloured water with apprehension.

Jowan stares at Alistair’s glass, lip curled. “You’re actually drinking that? It looks like… Maker, I’m not even going to say it.”

“Piss. It looks like piss,” Maroth supplies, chuckling.

Wynne swirls the deep, red wine in her glass before inhaling gently. “Ah, delightful,” she says, taking a small sip. “It seems they may not know water, but their wine is wonderful.”

The woman beams, and Maroth notices she’s missing three teeth near the back. “Thanks! Corra will be pleased to hear that.”

Morrigan sniffs, sneering down at Wynne. "I do not even want to think from what manner of substance a cave-dwelling people would create their spirits."

Alistair nods his head, poking at his glass of water. "I tried dwarven ale once. I thought it was just something they tricked surfacers into drinking, as a joke."

“Really? I hear it’s quite potent,” Wynne says, shrugging. “The wine tastes fine, if you’d like to try some, dear boy.”

“Uh, no thanks. I’m not even sure I want to drink the _water_ here,” he replies, sniffing the glass of yellow liquid before shaking his head. “I think you’re right, Tabris. This isn’t water, it’s actual piss.”

Daveth chuckles, eyes twinkling. “And to think, you’ve already drank some of it.”

“Don’t remind me,” he grouses.

Jowan wets his lips, leaning forward to rest his head on his knees. “I don’t like it down here. Too closed in. Reminds me of the circle,” he says.

Alistair pats his shoulder, the corners of his eyes crinkling in concern. “Hey now, hopefully this mess will sort itself soon enough and we can get back to the surface.”

“Speakin’ of,” Maroth says, scratching his chin. “W’at’re we doin’ to make that happen?”

Daveth frowns, staring at a spot of dirt on the table. “Right. How do you feel about employing some of the Dark Wolf’s skill today?”

Maroth quirks an eyebrow, leaning back. “Ya… want me to steal, then?” he asks, curiosity gnawing at him. His fingers have been itching to return to the game, despite everything that’s happened. The thrill of sneaking through the shadows, fingers deftly moving over some rich asshole's coin purse before plucking it from their belts, gone again before they even realize it's missing. That thrill had given him zest, pleasure, and despite it all, he misses it.

Daveth smirks, shaking his head. “Only if you’re careful. I need you to do some diggin’. Use some of that charm of yours, and make some contacts in the underbelly.”

“You find me charmin’? How sweet,” Maroth replies, getting to his feet.

Daveth rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Take Zevran with you, just in case.”

Zevran bows, hair falling forward as he does. “I will gladly follow you into the bowels of the underground.”

“Right then, let’s go. Between the two of us, we practically ooze charm, yeah?

Alistair shakes his head, looking at Daveth. “Great choice,” he says, tone dry. “They’re either going to find someone useful, or sleep with them.”

Daveth looks at Maroth, a stern expression in his eyes. “Be careful, wolfy.” The nickname is a sharp prick to his heart. He can hear her voice, still, echoing in his mind

_"Hey, wolfy, yer ready fer a job, right?"_

_It was supposed to be simple, easy in and easy out of Vaughan's estate. Slip through the shadows, feet light as air._

_"Just get us w'at we need, wolfy. The coin'll be good, you'll see."_

_The guards hands as they chained him to the wall, harsh, brutal. Screams of his wife as Vaughan takes her, again and again. The gnawing ache of his belly as he hangs in the dungeon, days without food. The blinding white light as he stumbles toward his wife's corpse._

_"Ya want our help, after buggering up yer last job?"_

_Dead. So much death. Nesiara. Blood staining the ground. Vaughan. Sputtering and pleading for his life, light in his eyes gone in a flash. But his revenge was not without a price. Screams shatter the night air as his friends, his family, fall to the ground, face first in the mud. Death surrounds him as he flees._

_"Come on, wolfy, before more come."_

“I will if ya stop callin’ me that,” he grumbles.

“And give up seein’ you pout? Never,” Daveth replies, grinning devilishly.

“Arse,” Maroth says, shaking his head.

 

~*~*~

 

“An’ I thought the alienage was bad,” Maroth whispers, looking around. “Friggin’ shite.”

Bits of wood and rocks form tiny frames that he assumes must be the casteless equivalent of a house. Worn, filthy bits of cloth and random objects form half-assed nests. A few dwarves lay, curled up in a shivering ball, under the fragile, worn “homes”, bits of dirt covering them to keep warm.

Small, pink creatures with strange claws and long, wiggly snouts squeak as he passes, their whiskers twitching. “W’at in the void is that thing?” he asks, to no one in particular.

Zevran follows his gaze, chuckling. “Ah, I think they call it a nug,” he replies. “Makes for a rather tasty meal, or so I hear.”

Maroth’s eyes widen in horror. “They- They eat these little things? But they look like someone’s pet or somethin’.”

Zevran shrugs, stepping gingerly over a pile of trash. “I bet Amell would think so. She’d probably curtsy to it.”

Maroth lets out a snort of amusement. “Be nice,” he replies. “She’s gettin’ better ‘bout that nonsense.”

They wander the area, trying to ignore the beggars with their outstretched hands and pleading eyes. Desperation hangs in the air, thick and heavy and mingled with the smell of rotting garbage and lyrium. His eyes roam toward one casteless in particular, a beardless one with a small brand across his right cheek. He’s surrounded by the nugs, and his clothes look a bit nicer than the others. “Ya know, I probably shouldn’t, but I think I will anyway,” he mutters, running his fingers through his hair.

Zevran raises an eyebrow. “Care to explain what that’s supposed to mean, my dear Dark Wolf?”

“I’m goin’ to buy a nug. There’s a nice fat one o’er there, and I think Jalyn would like it,” he replies, walking toward the idle dwarf.

Zevran laughs, and the sound makes Maroth smile. “You are insane, my friend, but I like it. That’s just what we need; a small, pink hairless rodent following us about. Hopefully Amell’s dog doesn’t eat it.” He pauses, an amused smile on his face. “You are worried about your cousin, no? I am sure she will be fine.”

Maroth frowns as they reach the dwarf. “She shouldn’t have gone without me,” he grumbles, fishing around in his pocket for a few silvers. “Oiy then, you there. How much for that fat nug thing?”

The dwarf smiles, pudgy face full of curiosity. “You’re from the surface then? How’s it you don’t fall up into the sky?”

Zevran lets out a loud laugh, clutching his sides as Maroth stares at the man, flabbergasted. “Uh, I hold on real tight with my feet, yeah? Yer sellin’ those nugs, right? I want one.”

The dwarf nods. “How much ya got?”

Maroth looks down at the meager silver coins. “Six silvers, innit?”

He scratches his chin, tongue poking out between his lips before nodding. “Right, that’ll do. Go on then, take her. Thanks for the business, salroka.”

“Sal- w’at? Is that an insult?” Maroth purses his lips, looking down at the squeaking little nug.

“Eh? No, not at all. The topsider equivalent would be “friend”, more or less,” the dwarf supplies.

Maroth grunts as he picks up the squirming nug, holding it under one arm. It squeals and squeaks, nipping at his fingers. “W’at’re ya doin’, ya little shit? Calm yerself, or I’ll make ya into supper.”

Zevran chuckles, shaking his head as he reaches in his small pack. He hands Maroth a small piece of of leather, smooth and pliable. “Here, mi lobo. Perhaps the creature will do better with a leash.”

He quirks an eyebrow at his lover, setting the nug on the ground and taking the leather strap. “Do I even wanna know why ya got this?” he asks, lips twisting into a smirk.

A slow grin spreads across the assassin’s face. “I thought we might have some fun with it, no? But alas, it shall be regulated to a nug leash, instead. What a pity.”

“We should buy more leather, yeah?”

A gleam shines in Zevran’s eyes as he takes a slight bow. “As you wish, mi lobo.”

As they continue walking along the dirty alleyways that make up Dust Town, the nug following close behind on it’s new leash, Maroth wonders if Jalyn will actually like the weird looking little thing. A thought occurs to him and he pauses, eyes narrowed at Zevran.

“Oiy,” he says. “Lobo… Yer callin’ me yer wolf, ain’t ya?”

Zevran raises an eyebrow, lips twitching. “I am impressed. You figured that one out rather quickly. Why? Should I not?”

Maroth shrugs. “It’s not like I mind, it’s just…. Nessy always hated that work. Hated the Dark Wolf. Fought about it a lot, we did, right? Made her unhappy.”

Zevran grabs his chin, tilting his head lower before capturing his lips in a soft kiss. “Forgive me for saying so, but your wife is gone. What good does it do you to hide who you are, now?”

Maroth just grunts, shaking his head before kissing him again. “So yer sayin’ I should just embrace my former title? Be the Dark Wolf again?”

“If it makes you happy, why not?”

Maroth sighs, chest heavy and Nessy’s face still prominent in his mind. “W’at if I said you made me happy? By yer advice, I should take w’at I want an’ not let it go, yeah?”

Zevran frowns, pulling away with a scowl darkening his expression. “I thought we already discussed this? Why do you insist on complicating it?”

“Right, yeah, forget I said anythin’. Let’s go, we got work to do, yeah?” He looks back at the nug. “C’mon, you. Before I feed ya to the darkspawn or somethin’.”

The nug squeaks happily, whiskers twitching as it waddles behind him. “Good on ya,” Maroth grumbles.

A small fire burns in what appears to be the center of Dust Town, a rank odor drifting from the flames. One dwarf eyes them up and down, her long brown hanging around her face in knots. A simple brand covers her right cheek, much the same as most of the dwarves here. _At least they don’t mark us._ Maroth makes eye contact with the woman, lips turning into a hint of a smile.

“Hey, salroka. What’s a couple of surfacers doin’ down here in the slums? Got a vice you’re lookin’ to fill?” she asks, crossing her arms with a playful smirk teasing the corners of her lips up.

Maroth laughs, looking her eye and down. “Maybe. W'at’re ya offerin’, poppet?”

Zevran pouts his lips, eyes twinkling. “Such an appetite you have there. It’s marvelous, really.”

“Name’s Nadezda, salroka. I hear you two have been looking for information. I might have some, for the right coin.”

Zevran scoffs, glancing at Maroth. “You can almost smell the desperation of the locals, no?”

Maroth shrugs, leaning against a half-crumbling wall, the stink of stale food making him crinkle his nose. "I've got somethin' better than coin fer ya, if yer information's good."

"You're handsome, for an elf, but I'm none interested in that sort of exchange," Nadezda says, grinning. "Coin is w'at we need."

Maroth lets out a low chuckle, running his fingers through his hair. She's a clever one, this dwarf, and he can't help but feel intrigued. "Good thing fer us both then, since I'm not exactly offerin' that. I'm here with the Grey Wardens. With the right words from me, I could get ya more than just coin, with the influence they got."

Nadezda's eyes widen, darting around the small, cramped area. "Right then, salroka, why don't you and your friend follow me? If you're really with them Wardens, then I have a story for you."

Maroth nods, pushing away from the wall with a small grin. He winks over at Zevran, tugging the nug behind him as he follows Nadezda into a small, broken down stone house. The smell of alcohol makes his stomach churn, wrinkling his nose as he tries not to gag.

Nadezda hands him a large tankard, or large by dwarven standards, and he sniffs it uncertainly. "W'at is this?" he asks, frowning.

"Ale. Sorta'. It ain't poison, salroka, so don't worry." She hands another tankard to Zevran before taking a long drink from her own mug. "Ah, perfect. So, how much do you know about the carta?"

Maroth shrugs, but Zevran grins as he leans against a wall. "It's the largest crime syndicate in Orzammar, with a growing influence on the surface. Rumor has it, however, that its leader is dead and chaos spreads in its rank as two of the higher members fight for leadership."

Maroth looks over at Zevran, a grin spreading across his face. "The Crows teach ya 'bout that?" he asks.

Zevran winks, a lazy smile on his face. "It is wise for us to know the inner workings of the various... factions of Thedas. Helps if anyone needs us to assassinate outside of Antiva."

"Like Grey Wardens?"

He lets out a short laughter, the sound rolling against Maroth's skin. "Yes, like the Grey Wardens, though most houses are not so foolish as to take such a job."

Nadezda snorts, shaking her head. "Well, your friend ain't wrong, salroka. It's Bruna against Jarvia right now. I work with Bruna Brosca. I think, if you help us out, we can help you out."

Maroth raises an eyebrow. "Oh? An' why should we help yer Bruna over this Jarvia?"

"Cuz Bruna has better contacts on the surface for your war. I've kept my nose to the ground, and I know what's going on topside. You need in with them human noble folk, right?" Nadezda pauses, taking another drink and peering at them closely. When they don't deny her claim, she snorts, and continues. "Thought so. Well, Bruna's got a sister. Rica? She's a real pretty thing, used to be a noble hunter."

"Noble hunter? W'at's that, like some kind of dwarven prostitute?" Maroth takes a hesitant sip of the ale, and is surprised when it actually tastes like ale. Also tastes like dirt, but close enough to ale that he doesn't mind too much. 

Nadezda nods, a wry grin twisting her lips. "Yeah, kind of like that. Anyway, she's got braids down to her arse, gold capped teeth, and can even sing a bit. Charmin' girl. So, Bruna sent her to the surface. Met a human named Arl Bryland. Got on real nice with him, and with the right whispering in the widow's ear, he'll be willin' to throw his lot in with the Wardens."

Maroth exchanges a look with Zevran, baring his teeth in a wide grin. "Looks like you have yerself a deal, dwarf."

 

~*~*~

 

Bruna stares at Nadezda, using a small piece of stone to pick at her teeth. Her orange hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, two strands hanging by her thin, hollow face. Her eyebrows are thick enough that they almost seem like one, forming a hard line across her forehead. Her brand covers her cheek and additional tattoos trail across her forehead and other cheek, making her empty cheeks seem more jutted,

"What have ya brought me today, Naddy?" A slow grin spreads across her face as she stares up at the topsiders. 

Nadezda chuckles, crossing her arms across her tan armour. "This is the Grey Warden, Daveth, and his companions, Tabris, Arainai, and the mage, Jowan." She turns to them, a smirk twisting her lips. "And this, this is Bruna Brosca, rightful leader of the Carta."

Bruna snorts, tossing the tooth picker to the ground. "I only got one rule," Bruna says, expression darkening. "There's a man, serving at Jarvia's side. His name's Leske. Got braided hair down to his ass, pulled back into dreads. He's  _mine_ to kill. Anyone else gets that final bow in, and the deals off."

Her cloudy green eyes flash as she speaks, clenching a dagger tight in her fist. Scars decorate her knuckles, crisscrossing on her flesh like someone had sawed at her fingers until they nearly reached bone. Maroth takes a deep breath, shrugging his shoulders. "Right, leave the dreaded dwarf ta ya, got it," he replies, looking over at Daveth.

Daveth shrugs, running a hand across his stubble. "After this shit's over, I want a shave and a bath," he grumbles. "Smells like piss down here."

Bruna grins, a low chuckles coming from her throat. "That's Dust Town for ya. Sticks to the skin, as me mum says. I don't know if we got any baths big enough for ya, lanky, but after we're done we'll celebrate with some ale."

Daveth groans, rubbing his hand across his face. "Wonderful, dwarven ale. Sounds bloody brilliant."

Maroth throws an arm around his shoulder. "Don't look so glum, right? It ain't so bad. Only tastes a little like dirt."

"I hate you," Daveth grumbles, pushing him away. "Alright, Brosca, lead the way."

Maroth follows close behind the dwarven women, two daggers clutched in his hands. His spear's too long for the narrow tunnels. He smirks at his own joke, shaking his head and making a mental note to share it with Daveth later. He glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised as they reach a stone door. "Ya think Alistair's making any progress with them nobles?"

Brosca frowns, poking him in the stomach. "Hush. We're going in Jarvia's hideout now, so keep your voice down, or I'll sew your lips shut," she grumbles.

Zevran chuckles softly, bumping his shoulder with Maroth's. "Do not worry, I will not allow such without being paid a great deal of coin first," he whispers.

"Arsebucket," he mutters back. He mimes closing his lips toward the dwarf, brows furrowed.

Silently, they follow behind her, the tunnels narrow and covered in dry blood and mud. Maroth curls his lip as he fights swarms of Jarvia's men, twisting and dodging blows aimed lower than he's used to. Jowan's magic brushes against him as the mage throws a fireball, scorching his skin. He throws a glare toward the man, vowing to return the favour if that flame's damaged his hair in any way.

His fingertips feel along his long locks, sighing in relief when he doesn't feel any burnt edges. Just his face then. Facial scars are sexy, he figures, holding his daggers at the ready as they continue to creep along.

Finally they reach a large room where the last of the Carta gather. "Look at here, looks like Brosca's got herself a bunch of long legs. Couldn't beat me on her own," a woman says with a cruel sneer. She wears thick eyeliner that creates a sort of mask, crossing together at the bridge of her nose. Maroth can't tell if it's carefully applied make-up or some sort of fucked up, painful tattoo.

Bruna steps forward, gaze locked on a man with dreaded hair. "Lesk," she says, and her voice is softer than Maroth expected. "Why?"

He shrugs, his black armour reflecting the golden light of the torches. "It's just business, salroka." 

She scoffs, running a hand across her hair. "So it was just business when you had your lover tortured and framed for killin' Beraht?"

Lovers? Shit. Maroth looks over at Daveth, ready for things to take a turn for the worse. Leske grins, winking at her. "If you'd like, we can have another tumble before Jarvia kills you."

Jarvia throws her head back, a low laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep inside. "Aye, I don't mind sharing one last time."

The colour drains from Bruna's face as she realizes the implication of their banter. "You nug humpin' bastard," she says with a growl. "I will bathe in your blood tonight."

Nadezda grips her wrist, brows puckered. "Careful, Bruna. There's probably traps."

"Let go, Naddy," she says, yanking herself from the woman's grasp. She charges toward the Leske as a scream rips itself from her lips, echoing in the stone chamber. 

Leske dodges her attack, tsking as he smiles. "Careful, salroka. You wouldn't want anything to happen to your dear old mum, would ya?"

Bruna freezes, eyes widening. "What're ya talkin' about?"

He jerks his head at one of the other dwarfs. "You'll see," he says, eyes gleaming.

The man comes back, dragging a woman with a black sack tied over her head. Bruna shakes her head, lips parted as they take the hood off, forcing the woman to her knees.

Maroth can't believe what he's seeing as he watches Bruna sink to her knees, horror colouring her face. "Mum," she whispers, hands tightening into fists. "You sonuvabitch."

Bruises cover the old woman's face, blood pouring from several open wounds. Her orange-red hair, a mirror of Bruna's, lay in wet tangles. Jowan whimpers next to him. "Maker, how could they?" the mage asks in a whisper.

Maroth swallows, looking over at Daveth, who's face is crumpled in horror. The only one who seems unperturbed in Zevran, who's face is kept in a carefully blank expression as he watches.

Leske grabs a bottle of alcohol, waving it the woman's direction. "Here ya go, Kalah. This is what you want, isn't it?"

Kalah scrambles forward on her knees, hands tied together and reaching for the bottle. Bruna flinches, looking away. "Let her go," she begs. "It ain't her ya want, right? Let her go, Leske, and you can do whatever ya want to me."

He grins, kicking the old woman away. She yelps but continues to reach for the bottle. He tosses it to her and she grins, taking a long swig. "Beg for your mother's life," he replies. "I want to hear you beg, bitch."

Bruna closes her eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them, meeting Leske's gaze. "Please, Lesk. Please, let her go. I'll do anythin' you want, just please let her go," she whispers, voice breaking.

Maroth hears Nadezda growl low in her throat, clutching her short sword in an iron grip. "Nug humpin' little shit, I'll kill 'im myself," she mutters too low for the other dwarves to hear.

Leske saunters over toward Kalah, taking the bottle and throwing it against the far wall where it smashes, splattering dark red wine against the stone. Jarvia sighs, glancing at her nails. "Get this over with, Leske. I'm growin' bored."

He bends down, grabbing Kalah by the hair and yanking her head up so hard there's a soft crack that echos in the room. "Keep beggin', salroka. Your mother's life depends on it."

Bruna's eyes widen. "Please, Lesk. We were friends, remember?" She crawls over to him, knees smacking across the ground. She presses a kiss to the top of his boot, kneeling at his feet.

He grins, nodding. "Call me your master," he says, yanking harder on her mother's hair.

Bruna shivers, as she looks down at the ground, eyes filled with disgust. Kalah whimpers, tears and snot rolling down her dirty face. "You're hurtin' me, Leske," she says, hands turning into claws as she grabs at his hands, tangled in her hair.

"Shut up, Kalah," he says with a growl. "Your daughter's pleadin' for your life right now."

Bruna swallows, taking a deep breath. "Alright, Lesk. You win. Please, _Master_ , let her go." She rubs her face against his boot, stroking it slightly. Maroth nearly looks away, stomach churning. but forces himself to watch. "I beg of ya, Master, please let my mum go."

Leske laughs, a deep sound that makes Maroth feel like he's going to be sick. He takes his dagger and runs it across Kalah's throat. Blood sprays across Bruna's face, staining her tan skin a dark red. "Not good enough," he whispers. 

Bruna's scream is broken as she tackles Leske, grabbing his face and pounding his head into the ground. Jarvia moves to attack and Daveth's arrow flies to pierce her shoulder. 

"Kill them! Kill them all!" Jarvia shouts the words to her men, face twisted as she rushes toward Brosca.

Jowan mutters a spell, grabbing hold of the woman and flinging her back. The dwarves rush them all at once and Nadezda grins as she charges into battle. "Jarvia's mine," she hollers, voice filled with a mad sort of glee as she darts around the shadows.

Maroth moves forward, blocking blows from two dwarven men as he twists his body into positions he hadn't thought himself capable of. If he had known this was going to be the result of working with the Carta, he never would have suggested it to Daveth.

_High pitched screams of a woman come from above, echoing through the floor of Vaughan's room, descending into broken sobs as the shem laughs gleefully. The light burns his vision as the door to the dungeon finally opens._

_The screams end abruptly, a soft thud hitting the floor. Maroth flinches as his shackles release him, falling to his knees and scrambling toward the stairs._

Maroth spins around, twisting his daggers into a dwarf's side as memories assault him. He clenches his jaw, frowning as he throws a spinning kick to the chest of woman, trying not to remember. His eyes catch a glimpse of Kalah Brosca, her red hair made darker by the blood.

_Blood stains the stone a dark red, pooling to mix with hair a pale, straw blonde. Her underwear is ripped and stained, body twisted at an odd angle as her eyes stare at him blankly, glassy, no light to show she's alive. Nessy. Sweet, innocent Nessy._

He lets out a roar as he plunges his dagger into the last of the dwarves, knees hitting the ground as blood seeps from a wound in his side. Zevran's hand is warm against his neck, the assassin's knuckles brushing lightly against his skin. "Are you alright?" he asks, whispering in Maroth's ear.

Maroth nods, turning his head to watch as Bruna crawls away from Leske's corpse. His head has been smashed so many times that it's nothing but a heap of broken bones and brain matter sitting atop a red smear on the ground. Bruna slips in the blood as she reaches for her mother, a sob escaping her lips.

"Mum," she whispers. She shakes Kalah, the woman's head lolling awkwardly on her neck. "Mum!" She screams the word, shaking her harder. She keeps screaming the word, over and over as she pounds her fists on the ground, voice breaking as the screams turn to sobs. Her whole body shakes as she howls her grief to the ceiling, tears streaking down her face.

Nadezda limps toward, wincing with each step. "Bruna," she whispers, cupping the woman's face in her hands.

Bruna shakes her head so hard that her hair whips around, hitting her in the face. "She isn't dead. She's just passed out, drunk, right? She isn't dead, no, she isn't dead."

"Oh, salroka, I'm sorry," Nadezda says, pressing a soft kiss on her head. "Come on, you need to get up now. I can't run the Carta without you."

Bruna takes a deep breath, closing her eyes, before slowly getting to her feet. "I wish I could kill him again," she says, before turning toward Daveth. "You, Grey Warden. Come with me. I will send a missive with you, to my sister. Give this to Rica Brosca and you'll have her help with Bryland. Then I want you all out of Dust Town. There's nothin' more I can do for ya."

Jowan shifts, wringing his hands. "I don't know if it'll work the same on a dwarf, but there's a spell I know. It'll help you sleep, and make this seem like a distant memory. May- Maybe it'll help?"

Bruna lets out a short bark of a laugh. "Thanks, mage, but nothin's goin' help me except three bottles of ale. Go on, get. I need... I need to leave this place. Have someone clean it up before we settle back in here. Yeah."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not expecting this chapter to go as dark as it did. Leske is actually one of my favourite characters, and I have a whole story outlined where he and a different Brosca fall in love and stop the Blight together. This story took Leske's character in a very different direction. O_O


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art of Melina done by: http://misscinny.deviantart.com/

The snow is cold, bitter, as it seeps through her worn leather shoes. Had she known Haven would be so cold, she would have brought a pair of boots. Melina whispers a spell under her breath, sending heat toward her feet in small wisps. She strains an ear, frowning as a soft singing floats through the air in a fevered, high pitched tone. Dane growls low in his throat.

"You're not welcome here, lowlander. Leave." The guard's armour is black against the white, snowy town, his cheeks red and eyes narrowed with distaste.

Melina swallows but straightens her spine, refusing to give up now that she's brought them all the way here. "We've traveled a long way, and it's terribly cold. Please, ser, isn't there an inn we can stay at, just for the night? I promise we'll leave come morning," she says, curtsying.

He frowns as she casts a small confusion spell his way, subtly turning his thoughts. "You... You have no business here, lowlander." His tone is hesitant, though, less harsh and she strengthens the spell, gently urging him to accept her plea. "I suppose it is cold. Fine, you may stay for the night, but we have no inn. Ask the Revered Father for lodgings."

Leliana raises a brow as they enter the small, sleepy town, away from the guard. "No inn? What sort of town has no inn?"

Melina bites her lip, shaking her head. "I'm also worried over this 'Revered Father'. Do Chantries have Revered Fathers?"

"No, we don't," Leliana replies. "Not even the blasphemous ones in Tevinter."

"We should investigate before going to him," Jalyn says, her voice reverting to the bland tone. "That house, over there. Can you sense it? There's magic."

Melina closes her eyes, letting her shields slip and opening her mind to her surroundings. Snaky tendrils of dark magic float in the air, tainting it. She pushes against it, struggling to see, to feel.

 _Come, come, bonny Lynne; tell us, tell us where you've been_  
_Were you up, were you down_

The air thickens, weighing her down as her legs shake. Splinters of someone else's memories burst in her mind, fear crippling her, holding her in place.

 _Chasing rabbits ‘round the town_  
_Come, come, bonny Lynne; tell us, tell us where you've been_

A man, running. Blood pours from his mouth as he slips in the snow. He coughs, and the snow is painted red. Pain shoots up her leg as his ankle cracks. He scrambles to his feet, pushing away from the ground as his breath comes in hurried gasps.

 _Come, come, bonny Lynne; we've a bed to put you in_  
_It is soft, it is warm_  
_It will shelter from the storm_

A dragon's roar shakes the earth. The man's eyes widen in fear, his heart pounding. He glances over his shoulder at the crowd chasing him, their torches burning bright blue against the blackness of night. Blood pours from an open wound as dragonlings chitter, scampering across the snow.

 _Come, come, bonny Lynne; we've a bed to put you in_  
_Dear, dear bonny Lynne sleeps the peaceful crib within_  
_A mossy stone, a finger bone_

Melina's knees hit the ground as they descend upon him, hands curling into claws that grab at his clothes, pulling, tearing, smothering. Her breath comes in small pants as they carry him up the hill, chanting foreign words that she can't understand.

 _No one knows but Lynne alone_  
_Dear, dear bonny Lynne sleeps the peaceful crib within._

"Melina? Melina!" A hand strikes across her face, and she opens her eyes, blinking against the dazzling sun as pain splinters through her jaw.

She forces a smile, getting to her feet with shaky legs. "I'm alright, Sister. My head felt a bit dizzy, must be this mountain air." She glances over toward the guard, who's peering at her with a dangerously curious expression. 

Jalyn wears a frown on her face. "You are not alright," she accuses. 

"Then I will be as soon as I have some water," Melina amends. "Let's go, before anyone else takes notice of us," she adds in a whisper.

The waking dream replays in her memory as they walk up the mountainside. Tiny houses stand close together, the wood dark and ominous in the late afternoon light. Smoke puffs from the chimney tops, billowing up against the sky. She watches as it blends in with the clouds, the bitter wind slapping against her skin. The air smells of tainted magic; blood and power and something else, something that she doesn't quite recognize. It reminds her of the tiny lizards they kept in the circle. The tranquil kept them in cages and used their sweat glands in various tonics. Melina smiles to herself as she remembers the way they'd scamper around the glass cages, tongues darting out to smell the air.

Sometimes Owain would take them out and let her hold them, their scales rough against her hands. She'd laugh as their tiny claws would scamper up her arm to hide in her tangled curls. Her smile now fades as she remembers Owain. Before he volunteered for Tranquility, he'd been kind to her. He was an apprentice when she first arrived to the circle. His hair was thicker back then, falling in tangles around his shoulders. He wiped her tears when she cried alone, missing her family. She can still feel the shock at his choice to become tranquil, the palpable fear he felt at his own power.

Jalyn's voice echos in her ear. _"He's a fool."_

 _"He's scared."_ She's still not sure if her response was true, or a reflection of her own feelings. Sometimes, it's hard to tell them apart, her emotions and those around her.

She glances over at Jalyn, a soft sigh escaping her lips in a visible puff of air. She reaches over, grabbing her friend's hand in her, fingers entwining. Jalyn looks over at her, a bemused expression on her pointy face. Melina can't help but smile that there's an expression there at all. Tranquility should be a choice. Not something wielded as a weapon, especially not on the innocent. She squeezes Jalyn's hand tighter,  a small tendril of happiness seeping into her heart, despite everything. 

"You okay, shem?"

Melina nods, letting go. She opens her mouth to reply when she's hit with a pulse of magic like a punch to the gut. It knocks the wind out of her as she falls to her knees, a cry escaping her lips. She can hear chanting, far away like a lost echo in the wind, strange words whispered reverently in the dark. A knife gleams in the darkness, maniacal laughter in her ear. She can hear Dane, growling, but it sounds farther away than the faded memory she sees in her mind. Blood drips from a hundred small gashes across a broken body as a man's life slips away, fueling the mages' spell.

She can feel bony fingers gripping her arms, a voice calling out her name in a fevered panic. She blinks, her surroundings slowly coming into focus. She reaches out a hand, cupping Jalyn's worried face. "I'm fine. I- I don't think I like this place. There's something very wrong here."

Jalyn's expression fights between neutral and scared, facial muscles spasming like she has a twitch before settling to something sort of in between. "You had me worried, shem. Maybe we should just go."

Leliana bites her lips, looking up the mountain side. "I do not think they will lets us leave, yes? They're watching us. I wonder why this places has such an effect on you?"

Dane nudges her hand with his large head. She scratches behind his ears before getting to her feet, brushing the snow off her robes as she goes. "I can feel the lingering emotions of those who wandered to this village before us. I think it's because I'm an empath. Their fear was so strong, and the veil is so thin here, that it's left an imprint I can see in my mind."

"Ah, yes, that makes sense," the Sister agrees, nodding her head. "Still, I'm beginning to think my advice to come here alone was... ill given."

Jalyn rolls her eyes. "Ya think? Too late now, though."

Leliana frowns, her full lips turning down as her eyes flash. "Well, I think I liked your attitude better before."

"Before?" Jalyn's eyes narrow, before her face goes blank again. "Yes, I suppose a woman of the cloth would prefer for mages to hold less of an opinion." Her tone is blank, and Melina can't tell if it's done on purpose or if it's the effect of the tranquility still taking hold.

Melina frowns at the Sister. "That was unkind of you, Sister. Please don't say such things to her."

"That... wasn't what I meant," Leliana mumbles. "Anyway, we should continue our search. We've already earned their attention, no?" 

Melina sighs, nodding her head in response. She points toward one house in particular, a swirling dark energy pouring from it. "There, we should look over there."

She shivers as they make their way toward it. A roar shakes the ground. The air reeks of sulphur. Putrid magic slithers across her skin. She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. Her hand reaches out to grab the doorknob. It's cold against the palm of her hand, the wood polished smooth. Her wrist twists as she pulls. The door creaks, an ominous sound in the still silence. The rank smell of corpses and blood wafts from inside.

Melina covers her mouth as she steps across the threshold. She blinks against the darkness, eyes adjusting to the soft light pouring in from a far window. She lights the tip of her staff, a soft white glow that brightens the room. She gasps in horror as she registers what she's seeing.

Corpses are piled in one corner, limps tangled together so tight that she can't tell them apart. The wood floor is stained with so much blood that it looks like a morbid paint job. Only splotches of wood peak out from underneath the dark red colour.  She turns her gaze away from he bodies, eyes landing instead on a blood-stained alter. A human skull sits in the center of a ring of candles. She steps closer, fingers reaching toward it as tears prick at her eyes. Screams echo in her mind, fear so thick it makes it hard to breathe. She raises her shields, blocking out the memories of the Arl's knights screaming and bleeding as their bodies are chopped apart. 

"They were alive. They were alive as their limbs were cut from their bodies," she whispers, horror colouring her voice. "Maker save us."

A soft scraping sound makes her spin around, eyes widening as a corpse grins at her, shuffling toward her with broken bones. The pile of arms and legs starts to twitch, hands clawing at the floor. 

Leliana crosses her heart as she slowly backs away toward the door. "Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond."

Melina clutches at her pendant, heart beating wildly. She joins in on the Sister's prayer, trying to keep her shields intact as the corpse continues to drag itself toward her. "For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."

Her hand reaches for her staff as the door slam shuts. The light goes out and a scream shatters the silence.

 

~*~*~

 

Maroth stares down at the dwarf as the man chugs an entire tankard of ale in one gulp. Bits of food are stuck in his long, red beard, and his eyes are slightly hazy. But his speech is even as he glares up at them. "You lot are goin' down into the Deep Roads, right? To find Branka?"

Daveth nods slowly, exchanging a glance with Alistair. "We are. Why? Whats'it to ya?"

"Name's Oghren. I don't care whose arse gets put on the throne, be it Bhelen or his smug brother, Torin. What we need is a Paragon." 

Alistair sighs, leaning against the wall. "That seems to be the popular opinion from the nobles, as well. I met with Prince Torin, and then with Prince Bhelen an hour later. Seems their father died, but the brothers are fighting over who's next in line."

Maroth quirks an eyebrow at this, folding his arms across his chest. "Yeah? Bunch of friggin' political bullshit, if ya ask me. Ya figure out w'at we need to do to get w'at we need?"

Daveth snorts. "Yeah, wolfy, we did. Like this dwarf says, we need one of them Paragons. The only one alive is stuck in the ass end of the Deep Roads." He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right, so it's like this." He turns to Alistair, frowning. "You're staying here."

Alistair matches his frown, pushing away from the wall. "What? Maker's breath, why?"

"Because we have all of two Grey Wardens, and the Deep Roads ain't no picnic. If we fail, then one of us has to survive. Plus, with your... background, that survivor should be you."

Maroth raises his eyebrow, curiosity pawing at him. He wonders what background they could be talking about. His templar training? Doesn't seem likely. 

Alistair shakes his head. "You can't leave me out of all the tough battles because of that."

"True," Daveth agrees. "But I'm leavin' ya out of this one. Maroth, Morrigan, and Cullen will come with me to the Deep Roads."

Maroth looks over at Zevran, who's wearing a dark scowl. "Not t'at I mind, but do ya really need me?"

Zevran nods. "I agree, my Warden friend. You have more than enough companions to go with you."

Maroth grins, lips twisting up into a smirk. "Worried 'bout me, are ya?" he teases.

"Who else would warm my bed at night?" Zevran replies with a shrug.

Maroth scoffs, still grinning. "I'm sure ya'd find someone quick enough," he quips.

"This is true. On second thought, Warden, take him if it pleases you."

Maroth lets out a short laugh. "How generous of ya."

Oghren grunts, scratching his chin. "Yeah, well, I'm coming with ya. You'll need someone who knows the Deep Roads and the beasts that live there."

Daveth claps a hand on the dwarf's shoulder, grinning widely. "Glad to have ya, Oggy."

The dwarf's thick brows raise up so high they disappear into his hairline. "Oggy? What? Eh, you topsiders are a strange lot. You got wax in your ears? Name's Oghren. Ogh-ren," he says, drawing out the word slowly the second time. 

Maroth chuckles. "Don't mind him, dwarf. He's got a habit of givin' people annoyin' nicknames they hate."

"Wonderful," Oghren replies dryly, looking down at his empty tankard with a morose expression. "Can we get drunk before we go? I fight better drunk."

"No," Alistair replies, a scowl colouring his face. "You can't."

Maroth sighs, pouting his lips together. "Shame, that." He takes a deep breath and instantly regrets it as the smell of stale booze invades his nostrils. "So, what happens if we can't find this Brenke?"

"Branka. Her name's Branka," Alistair corrects. "And if we don't find her, we make up a lie that we did, and make the choice ourselves. Otherwise this foolishness will never end."

Daveth raises an eyebrow at him. "Good plan. Any ideas on that?"

"On what? On who should be named King? Yeah, I suppose I do," Alistair replies. "Torin seems an honest man. Claims this Bhelen killed their eldest brother and tried to frame him for it, but failed. Almost succeeded, but Torin caught wind of his plan in advance. Bhelen made my skin crawl, and was evasive when I asked him about it."

Maroth looks over at a jug of ale sitting at a nearby table. "We should have at least one friggin' drink before we go. A toast, to hopin' we make it out alive, yeah?"

Alistair nods, leaning against the wall again. "One drink wouldn't hurt." His brow furrows as he glances at the door. "I wish Melina and the others were back by now," he mutters.

Daveth nudges his shoulder, a slow grin spreading across his face. "I'm sure they're fine, lover boy. Don't worry so much."

 

~*~*~

 

Her feet slip in the snow as she runs down the mountain, icy wind whipping her hair around. Jalyn grabs her hand, pulling her along, as they try to outrun the mob of villagers chasing them. Their voices are raised in song, making the hairs on the back of Melina's neck stand up. 

"We can't out run them," Leliana shouts.

"We can't fight them, either," Jalyn shouts back.

Fear claws at her mind, but she pushes it down. She stops running, kneeling down and facing Dane. She throws up a barrier spell around them, and some of the villagers blast it with magic. It shakes, but holds against it, keeping them safe.

She grabs a small piece of parchment from her bag and scrawls a short note on it. She sticks it in Dane's collar, and sends a prayer to the Maker. She grabs his head in her hands, pressing her forehead against his. "Go into the forest, Dane. Wait there until Alistair and the others arrive. Be a good boy and stay safe." Dane whimpers, slobber dripping from his lips. Melina sends a bit of her magic into the dog, using her will to bend his. "Please," she begs.

Dane licks her face and lets out a mournful howl before taking off toward the trees. "Maker watch over you," she whispers. She turns to Jalyn and Leliana as more magic beats against her shield.

"I can't hold this shield for much longer." She takes a deep breath. "We have no choice but to surrender. Maybe, maybe we can get out of this if we bide our time until the Wardens arrive."

Leliana frowns, tucking a strand of her short red hair behind her ear. "This is not a good plan."

"Ya got a better one, Chantry?" Jalyn shoots back, her annoyance prickling against Melina's skin. The thinness of the veil, the dark magic swirling through the air, Melina can feel it splitting the elven girl's tranquility far apart. For a moment, she wishes Izanami were here.

The Sister shakes her head, putting her bow away. "No, I do not," she replies, tone dejected. "May the Maker watch over us all."

Melina sets her staff in the snow, letting the barrier drop. "Please, do not attack! We come in peace, I swear-" Her words are cut off as an arrow pierces her shoulder.

She falls to her knees, a thick poison running through her veins. "Don't attack them," she whispers to her companions. Darkness floods her vision, weariness tearing at her mind. Snow fills her mouth as she falls forward, not even feeling the cold anymore.

 

~*~*~

 

The ropes bite into her skin, pulling at her shoulder muscles as she sits, bound. The gag tastes like ashes in her mouth, nearly suffocating her with how far they stuffed it in. She glances around, trying to shuffle her body to get her bearings straight.

Melina's heart skips a beat as she sees Jalyn, blood dripping from her lip, tied up next to a balding man. His skin is aged and wrinkled, and cuts crisscross over his face. He blinks at her, and sighs. "You've come looking for the urn, as well, no doubt? It's here, up in the mountains, but I doubt we'll ever see it now," he says, tone leaden with sadness. His sorrow brushes against her, tinged with pain from his wounds.

Melina nods, brows furrowed. She wants to ask his name, but the gag is stuffed too tight to even mumble.

He seems to understand despite that, and leans back against the wall, hands bound behind his back. "My name is Brother Genitivi. I came here, seeking the Urn. They turned me away, at first. But I persisted. I dare say that was a mistake, one I will hopefully live to regret."

Melina nods again, still unable to speak and twists her head, looking for Leliana. Her eyes widen when she doesn't see her, heart pounding beneath her ribs like a war drum.

"You are looking for your fellow? The young girl with short red hair? They took her, I'm afraid. No doubt she'll be back, and worse for the wear. They like to spend weeks torturing you before finally sacrificing you. It's a miracle I've lasted so long, Andraste be praised," Genitive says, guessing her question.

She leans her head back before leaning forward again. She tilts her head down toward her lap, using her tongue to press against the gag, struggling to push it out of her mouth. She nearly chokes on her own tongue in the process, tears streaming down her face in frustration. She's never felt so scared or alone in all her life, not even when they were trapped in the Fade. 

She watches as Jalyn stirs, the gag in her mouth preventing her from speaking as well. They look at each other, and Melina wishes she were closer. She tries to scoot toward her but falls to her side, head connecting lightly with the stone floor. The Faith spirit flutters in her heart, a soft, nervous humming in her brain. She closes her eyes, trying to send a calming spell toward it but fails. Her eyes fly open as she tries to draw up her mana, but is left empty. Panic runs through her as she tries again and again, but the well is dry and she can't grasp hold of the familiar swell of magic that lives within her.

Brother Genitive sighs, looking at her with sorrowful eyes. "You are a mage, correct? They set dampening wards around this room. You won't be able to call up your magic here, I'm afraid."

Slowly, the panic fades away, leaving only faint traces of fear. The explanation calms her, and she's grateful her magic is not gone forever. A scream pierces the air, and Melina recognizes Leliana's voice. She flinches as the woman screams again, the pain-filled sound mingled with anger. She can feel the Sister's determination from here, though, and prays that she'll be okay. 

The door slides open, disappearing into the wall, and she watches with wide eyes as Leliana is tossed inside, hands bound behind her back. Her armour is torn and soaked with blood. The stench of scorched flesh fills the air and Melina can see burn marks covering the Sister's arms. Brands, shaped like a tiny urn, scattered across her skin.

She turns her head, eyes flashing with anger. "Kill me if you wish, but I will never break for you," she says with a growl, glaring at the man in black robes.

The man just shakes his head, eyes narrowing. "I am Revered Father Eirik, and you will break, as all others before you have." He casts a spell, knocking the Sister unconscious, and walks toward Melina.

He reaches in her mouth, yanking the gag out. He grabs her hair, pulling her to her feet with a sharp tug. She yelps, tears springing to her eyes. "Why? Why are you doing this?"

He scoffs, dragging her toward the door as she trips over her own feet. “We don't owe you any explanations for our actions. We have a sacred duty; failure to protect Her would be a greater sin. All will be forgiven.”

Jalyn squirms against her bindings, eyes frantic. Melina offers her a small smile as she's dragged out through the door. "Don't worry, my friend. I'll be fine. I have my Faith to protect me," she whispers.

 

~*~*~

 

The magebane burns at Eirik shoves the poison down her throat. Her breath comes in short gasps, mind spinning as the poison takes hold. Blood pours from her nose and gums. It tastes sweet, like candy, but burns like acid in her throat. Her vision blurs as her body convulses. She can feel her mana draining from her body, the bare feeling a sharp pain.

"Please, don't do this," she whispers as Faith screams in her mind. 

Eirik ignores her pleas, tying her arms to a post. His dagger rips at the back of her robes, baring her flesh to the cold mountain air. "Please," she begs.

The sound of a whip cracks against the silence, sharp and brutal as it lashes across her back. She cries out as her flesh rips open, blood dripping down her skin from the force of the blow. 

Tears stream down her face as pain blinds her. "O Maker, hear my cry: guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked. Make me to rest in the warmest places. "

 _Crack._ The whip breaks through the air, again, another jolt ripping through her body. Faith cries out and she cannot comfort it with magic. So she whispers a prayer, the only thing she has left.  
  
"O Creator, see me kneel: for I walk only where You would bid me. Stand only in places You have blessed. Sing only the words You place in my throat."

The whip lands across her neck this time, and she lets out a broken sob. _Can't break, you can't break, please don't break._ She pulls Cullen's face in her mind, picturing his gentle smile.    
  
The words come out a rush, her voice filled with tears. "My Maker, know my heart: take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride."

A low growl comes from behind her. "Do not speak the words of Andraste like you know her, blasphemous wench!" The whip cracks down, again, and again, until all she can see is a hazy red across her vision.

It steals her breath momentarily, but she forces the words out through gritted teeth, tears pouring down her cheeks. "My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval." Cullen's smile in her memories shifts, his face fading and morphing into Alistair's. His brown eyes shine with kindness as he cups her face, a small, reassuring smile twisting his lips.

This time a fist connects with the back of her head and stars burst across her vision as she cries out. A bloodied rag covers her mouth, stopping the prayer from spilling from her lips. She recites the words in her heart, crying through the gag as the whip beats against her skin over and over until she passes out.  
  
_O Maker, hear my cry: seat me by Your side in death. Make me one within Your glory. And let the world once more see Your favor._  
  
_For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give._

 

~*~*~

 

Slowly her eyelids flutter open, the snow cold against her bare skin. Her wounds send sharp pains along her back. She winces, rolling over. Her eyes widen with fear as she sees Brother Genitive, stripped naked in the harsh winds.

"Wh-What are you doing?" she asks, looking at Eirik.

The Father's eyes are cold as he sharpens a curved blade, the metal gleaming in the sunlight. He doesn't answer her, doesn't even bother to look at her. She crawls toward Genitive on her hands and knees, struggling to reach him, to help him. His hands and feet are bound, face pressed against a large boulder. Another stone sits on his back, pressing down on his own whip marks, keeping him leaning up.

She pushes at the boulder, but her body is weak from the whipping and poison. Eirik kicks her away with his steel-toed boots. She can feel her ribs crack under the pressure, a soft cry escaping her lips. She forces her self up again, still scrambling to get to Genitive.

Eirik grabs her by the hair and throws her away, lips curled in a snarl. "This is the fate that awaits you all. Unless you acquiesce to our request."

Brother Genitive rolls his eyes to look at her, tears streaming from his eyes. "Don't listen to them, child. Their faith has been twist-"

Eirik brings the long blade down in a whoosh, slicing through Genitive's neck in one, fluid motion. Melina's heart stops, eyes wide, as Genitive's head rolls toward her. A scream bubbles up in her throat, ripping from the depths of her heart as Eirik chuckles.  

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay. Deciding between Branka and Caridin is probably the hardest thing I've had to write for this entire stupid thing, and it took me way longer than I'm happy with to figure out what Daveth wanted to do. I'm sorry if it seems rushed around that part, I kinda just got sick of it after awhile. Hopefully you enjoy the rest of it, since I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> Art at the end is from a few chapters back, NSFW of Mroth and Zevran, and done by the ever lovely: https://www.facebook.com/ophieldraws/?fref=ts / http://kurisudan.deviantart.com/
> 
> The other one is Izanami when she's in the Fade (otherwise she looks like Wynne, haha), and is done by:  
> https://www.facebook.com/ImaginAriesArtwork/ / http://imagin-aries.deviantart.com/
> 
> tezpadam is the dwarven word for deepstalker. Elfroot and lifestone are used to brew the potion that cures the dwarven woman from poisoning in one of the small Orzammar quests.

Maroth's fingers twitch around his smooth, ironbark spear, heart beating quick beneath his ribs. The tunnels are narrow and hot and filled with dirt. Sweat drips from his brow. His palms are sweaty, the darkness overwhelming in its totality. He can hear the whispering sound of bugs crawling along the stone walls. His breath catches in his throat, insides spasming with barely controlled fear as the walls seem to close in on him.

The back alleys of Denerim were always cramped and crowded, too. Each house pressed tightly against its neighbor, a thick throng of people wandering the narrow cobblestone streets. But still, there was room to breathe and a large expanse of sky above him. Here, he's surrounded by stone on all sides. Pressing down and around him until his heartbeat seems to flutter and stop. He closes his eyes, counting backward from ten, and tries to remember what Denerim was like.

Merchants hocked their wares from crude wooden stalls. Nesiara's face swims in his mind, hair pulled back in a neat braid as she picks up fish and half rotten fruits from the tiny stalls. Her lips are curved into a smile as Laylah rides on his shoulders. _"Da! Buy me toy! Too-ooy!"_

The smell of sweat and piss was always strong in Denerim, or at least in the dirty back alleys. The market place smelled more like sweat and mabari. And of course, the ever pungent smell of fish from the docks wafted through the air no matter what part of Denerim you were in.

The Deep Roads reek of shit and stone. Maroth never knew stone had such an unpleasant odor until now; somewhat ashy and wet, a strange smell unlike one he's ever smelled before. He doesn't like it. He sighs, creeping close behind Cullen and Daveth, wishing he were above ground. He misses cities and people and bright, blinding sunlight. His heart aches with a longing for the thrill and bustle of the city life. He swears he's never going into another bloody friggin' forest or tunnel as long as he lives. Or at least once this blasted Blight is finished. With the way his luck is going, the damn archdemon will pluck itself down in the middle of forest and the only way to get to it will be by crawling through a mass of tunnels first. He rolls his eyes at the thought, sweat still dripping down his face.

Caridin's Cross is a massive crossroad, crumbling tunnels entwining in a strange, confusing maze. Tall statues lay scattered and broken at various entrances. Even Maroth can tell it was once a grand place, leading to numerous dwarven thaigs before the darkspawn took it over.

"So much rock over one's head... 'Tis rather disquieting," Morrigan mumbles.

Maroth looks back over his shoulder at her, lips turning into a slow smirk. "W'at's that, poppet? Don't like being in these deep, dark roads?"

Morrigan rolls her eyes, golden orbs glowing in the near perfect darkness. "I hear your heart pounding from back here, elf, so your mockery rings a bit hollow," she quips back. "Still, despite the stench and the darkness, there is much history to be found here."

"History my arse," Oghren scoffs. "Just a bunch of lost honour, corpses, and 'spawn."

"I don't know, dwarf," Cullen says. "There seems to be an awfully lot of of nug shit and vermin down here as well."

Daveth lets out a boisterous laugh and claps Cullen on the shoulder. "So the broody templar _does_ have a sense of humour. Good to hear it," he replies, still chuckling.

"I'm not broody," Cullen retorts, and Maroth can practically hear the man frowning.

Maroth shakes his head, a smile curving his lips. "You're more tortured than broody, yeah?" He shifts his spear, leaning it across his shoulder as they continue marching down the tunnel.

An ear-piercing squeak echos from the shadows, a cry that is beginning to sound all too familiar to Maroth. They rush at them in small herds from all sides, pale white skin glistening in the soft glow of lyirum veins.

"Oh shut up, you," Cullen replies, lifting his shield as a deepstalker charges him.

Oghren grunts behind him. "Bloody tezpadam," he says with a growl.

Maroth turns, spear in hand, as Morrigan shifts into wolf form to leap at the strange creatures. His skin crawls as he stares at the beasts; the deepstalker's gaping, headless mouths sending shivers down his spine. Yeah, he definitely hates the friggin' Deep Roads and every bloody thing that lives in them. Venom sprays in his eyes, burning and blinding as he gasps. His anguished howl echos, bouncing off the tunnel walls as he drops to his knees. Tiny teeth sink into his arm, stabbing his flesh in minuscule pinpricks. He reaches out, unseeing, and feels the clammy elongated neck of a deepstalker. He clenches the beast in his hand and pulls it from his arm before slamming it against the stone over and over until it squeaks one final time.

His surroundings flicker in his gaze as he blinks, eyes full of watery fluid as they continue to burn. Nothing comes into focus, and a dark cloud falls over his vision. He slows his breathing, listening what's going on around him, trying to anticipate when the deepstalkers might attack.

But he's never fought blind before. The wretched beasts seem to sense his weakness and he feels several sets of teeth connect with his flesh. He shouts as one of them is yanked off by an unseen hand. Maroth reaches for another, struggling to smash as many of them as he can in his current state. It isn't long before the teeth stop biting and the sounds of battle fade.

A hand touches his shoulder, large and square against his leather armour. He flinches, pulling away.

"Oiy, it's just me. Here, lean your head back, wolfy," a voice says, and he recognizes Daveth right away.

He hesitates a moment before complying, tilting his head back despite the pain. "I'm going to pour some water in your eyes, don't pull away like a fool, right?" He snorts in reply to Daveth's chiding words. Warm water splashes against his eyes, and the burning intensifies before slowly filtering out.

"W'at was that? Felt like more than water, yeah?" Maroth asks, blinking.

Cullen's brisk tone answers him, armour clanking as if he's shifting. "I put some elfroot and crushed lifestone in it. Should help with the acid in your eyes. Give it a minute to take effect," he says.

Maroth's knees are pressed against the stone floor as he blinks, blurry shapes slowly coming into focus. He can see a large, armour-clad form leaning against the wall of the tunnel, arms crossed over his chest. "'Ey, there ya are. Yer a sight fer sore eyes, pretty boy, yeah?" Maroth tries to wink at the templar but the pain makes him flinch instead.

Daveth bursts out laughing, reaching a hand down to life Maroth to his feet. "Maybe you should wait to flirt until ya've recovered, right? Idiot."

Maroth reaches for his hand and misses, vision still blurred. He frowns as Daveth howls with laughter. "Aw, shut it. If all yer gonna do is laugh, I don't need yer friggin' help," Maroth grumbles, hand lowering to his side.

Daveth shakes his head, grabbing his hand and giving a quick tug. "Wolfy, don't be like that. What're friends for if not to share a laugh?" he asks, grinning wide.

"I think I hate you," Maroth retorts.

Oghren grunts again, taking a long swig from a flash hidden under his beard. "Right well, if we're done lolly-gaggin' around, can we get a move on? Branka could need our help for all we know," he grumbles, beard twitching.

Morrigan yawns, still in wolf form. "Yes, I agree. T'would be a shame if we came all the way down these horrid tunnels for naught."

Cullen shudders, glaring at the wolf-girl. "That magic is unnatural, witch," he says, voice is a dangerous growl.

Morrigan scoffs, shifting back into human form, hair tumbling around her shoulders. She pulls it back into a high, messy knot, not bothering to make eye contact with Cullen. "Your words mean nothing to me, templar. But you should let go of your fear, lest it lay forever rotting in your heart."

"My heart is none of your concern," he replies, eyes narrowed.

She raises an eyebrow, a soft chuckle emitting from her throat. "No, 'tis not. But a certain young mage that travels with us cares a great deal about your heart, as twisted and withered as it is. Do you-"

"Shut up," Cullen says, pushing away from the wall. "One more word about her, and I will run my sword through your gut, witch."

"So testy. I must have hit a nerve. No matter." Morrigan turns to Daveth, full lips turned into a smirk. "Shall we continue, warden?"

Daveth shakes his head ruefully. "Aye, let's go. You alright there, wolfy?"

Maroth snorts, placing himself between Morrigan and Cullen as they continue walking. "I'd better if ya'd quit with the lame nicknames." He sighs, glancing over his shoulder at Oghren, vision mostly returned. "Ya any idea where we're going, dwarf?"

Oghren rests his large axe on his shoulder, scratching his cheek before replying. "Right. Looks like we're almost to Ortan Thaig. We should find somethin' useful there. That's where Caridin's from, and Branka thought the anvil might be somewhere near there."

Morrigan moves her wrist, frowning at the soft clicking sound. "T'would seem I've sprained my wrist," she says, brows furrowed.

Daveth grabs her hand, fingers deftly feeling along her wrist. Her cheeks pinken as the rogue holds her hand, yellow eyes wide. "What are you doing?" she demands, voice haughty.

He glances up at her, lips turning into a smirk. "You're right, you sprained it. I have an injury kit that'll help," he replies, not releasing her hand as he digs around in his pack. He takes some bandages and elfroot, wrapping the wrist tight.

"No more shape shifting," Daveth warns. "The bandage might not hold." He presses a soft kiss against the top of her hand, sending her a wink as he turns away.

Maroth bumps his shoulder with the Daveth's, one brow raised in amusement. "Leliana'll kill ya if she finds out yer hittin' on the witch," he whispers.

Daveth scoffs, glancing over his shoulder before replying. "What the Sister doesn't know..."

"Yer a rascal, my friend." Maroth chuckles, slinging an arm around his neck. "I like it."

 

~*~*~

 

Oghren takes a deep breath, fingers splayed against the wall as he stares at a bunch of scratches and dents in the stone. "We're on the right path. This has Branka all over it. She likes to take chips from the walls whenever she finds a new tunnel. Check their composition. Eh."

Maroth leans on his spear, eyes glancing around the small, dimly lit tunnel. "Right. So, ya seem ta know a lot about this Brenke. W'at's she to ya?"

Oghren's beard twitches as he frowns, glaring up at Maroth with narrowed eyes. "Branka is my wife, ya swishy nug-humping pipe cleaner."

Maroth chuckles, a grin turning his lips. "Ah, so there's someone out there crazy enough ta marry the likes of ya, yeah? Here I thought the smell kept the ladies away."

"Keep that up and I'll chop ya down to size, elf," Oghren says with a growl, reaching under his beard for his flask.

Cullen makes a soft grunting noise. "Please tell me the two of you won't be bickering the entire time we're down here?"

"Ah but how wou'd ya live without ta classic dwarven an' elven rivalry, Cully?" Maroth asks, lips pursed into a fake pout.

The templar groans, rubbing the back of his neck. "For the love of the Maker, do not call me Cully. You're as bad as Daveth with the ridiculous names."

Morrigan's staff glows a bit brighter, casting a yellow glow over them. "I do not like this place," she says. "Something is lurking nearby, hiding in the shadows."

"Wonderful," Daveth replies. "Come on, I sense darkspawn up ahead as well."

Maroth's eyes widen as he stifles a grin. "Darkspawn? _Here_ , in the Deep Roads? Maker, _no_!"

Daveth's hand connects lightly with the back of Maroth's head. "Don't be such an arse."

A large growl echoes, shaking the ground. An ogre lumbers from the shadows, and Daveth's face pales. "Bloody friggin' ogres!" the warden exclaims, grabbing his bow and backing up a few steps.

A small swarm of darkspawn spill from around the ogre's feet, warped and grotesque faces twisted into snarls. His spear is warm in his sweat-soaked palms as he parries a genlock's shortsword. A long, high-pitched howl rings in his ear, letting him know that Morrigan's shifted form again, despite Daveth's warning. He grins as he spins and drives his spear into the genlock's stomach. He's pretty sure the witch shape-changes as much as she does just to annoy their templar companion.

Maroth leaps back, narrowly missing the slicing dagger of a hurlock. A piercing screech causes him to flinch as smoke floats in the air. He ducks, rolling to the left to avoid the claws of a shriek from the shadows. He sidesteps another blow only to feel a dagger slip between his armour from behind. Maroth lets out a stream of curses, throwing his elbow back to slam into a darkspawn's face.

He spins, slamming his spear through its neck, lips curled into a snarl. "Friggin' shite, I hate darkspawn," he says with a growl.

Maroth feels himself being lifted up, up through the air, a large hand gripped around his middle. His eyes widen in fear and horror as the ogre brings him up toward his face. The beast growls, spittle coating Maroth's face, its breath a foul, rotting stench that makes his stomach curdle.

"No," Daveth screams, voice breaking at the end.

The ogre's other hand seems to be coming toward Maroth in slow-motion, reaching for his head. Maroth's fists pound in vain against the large, purple fingers holding him, his heart beating rapidly beneath his chest.

Suddenly, the ogre's eyes widen, mouth opening in a round O. He lets out a horrible howling sound, as if in great pain, blood dripping from his lips. His grip loosens and Maroth pushes away, slipping out of his grasp and falling back down toward the stone.

He lands on darkspawn hurlock, the creature's large but poorly armoured form not doing much to cushion his fall. He can feel a few ribs cracking, but gratitude washes over him as he thanks the Maker to be back on the ground.

Daveth's face looms over him, brows puckered tight together. "You alright there? Scared me half to death, you did," he says, grabbing Maroth's elbow and lifting him to his feet.

Maroth winches, pain in his ribs sharp and brutal, cutting of his breath. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Broke a few ribs, though. Friggin' shite. Melina should be here. Or Wynne. Why'd ya have us go down here without a healer? Seems right stupid of ya."

"Right, probably not my best decision so far," Daveth agrees sheepishly. "Still, glad you're alright, yeah?"

The ground shakes again as the ogre falls to the ground. Cullen leaps off its chest, his armour coated in blood. Oghren hands him a flash of water laden with elfroot, and the templar takes it gratefully.

"Thanks, dwarf," Cullen mumbles, taking a long swig. He glances toward Maroth before tossing the flask his way. "Drink."

Maroth winks over at the templar as he catches the flask, grinning. "Thanks," he replies. It won't heal his broken ribs, but it'll take the edge off the pain which is a load better than nothing at all.

Morrigan shifts back to human form, face noticeably wincing as she favours her sprained wrist. Daveth frowns, stomping over toward her and grabbing her roughly by the hand. "Thought I told ya not to shift anymore? Blast. It ain't like we've got a surplus of these damn kits, ya know," he grumbles, wrapping her wrist again.

"'Tis hardly going to help if you treat it so roughly," she quips.

Daveth sighs, stilling his hands for a moment. He rubs the pad of his thumb across her knuckles before continuing. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Why do ya keep shiftin' anyway? Do you enjoy frustratin' me? Or are ya just normally so petulant?"

A sly smile curving her lips up. "You are very cute to ask so many questions, though I know not why you bother. Do I probe you with pointless queries?"

Daveth chuckles. "You can probe me anytime, Morrigan," he quips, finishing up the bandage. "Now, no more shape-changin'."

She lets out a soft giggle in reply, eyes gleaming. "Oh? Are you planning on disciplining me if I disobey?" she asks, voice lowered in a seductive pout.

Maroth shakes his head, handing the flask back to Oghren. "Oiy, you two. Let's get a move on, already, yeah?" He turns, holding his rib cage as he walks toward the next tunnel.

A shiver runs down his spine as he creeps along toward Ortan Thaig. Bits of webbing covers the walls, a soft blue light from the lyrium glowing through the stringy, white substance,

“One, two, the spiders are comin’ for you.”

Maroth's eyes grow wide as he swallows past his fear. “W’at in the void is that?” he whispers, looking over at Daveth.

“Three, four, they’re making war.”

Daveth shrugs, sweat rolling off his face. The tunnels reek of lyrium, shit, and rotting corpses, the walls narrowing ever closer together. “Dunno,” he whispers back. "Not lookin' forward to findin' out, either."

“Five, six, hear them click.”

He shivers, reaching for his spear. He holds the hard wood in his hands, taking small, shallow breaths in through his nose. Calm yourself, Maroth, no need to piss yerself in the Deep Roads. Keep it together, yeah?

“Seven, eight, all the bones they’ve ate.”

“Wish whoever that nutter is would shut the frig up,” Maroth mutters.

“Nine, ten, they’ll eat your men.”

The tunnel opens up to a large thaig, houses crumbling and forgotten. The stone is coated with webbing that glows green in the darkness. The bitter stench of corruption is thick in the air. A dwarf stands in the center of a small dais, twitching as he picks at a scab on his arm. “No, no no no! Mine! It’s mine! Crunch your bones they will, it’s mine!”

Maroth looks over at Daveth, eyebrow raised. “Think that’s our poet? Voice sounds the same.”

Oghren grunts, scratching his arse and spitting on the ground. “Looks like he’s lost his mind. They say ya can only survive down here by eating darkspawn flesh.”

Maroth swallows, horror creeping up his spine. He opens his mouth to reply when a soft scuttling sound echos above him. Eight-legged shadows play against the ground as he dives to the right, rolling across the mud soaked stone.

Giant spiders hiss and click their hairy legs across the ground, scuttling toward them in large swarms. Maroth sighs as he dodges fangs and pincers. Balls of fire rain down from nowhere as Morrigan casts a spell and then he's too busy dodging friendly fireballs to worry about the spiders.

"Shite, woman, did ya have to rein fire on us all?" he mutters, side-eyeing the witch with a glare.

Morrigan shrugs as the last of the spiders die, waving her hands to stop the fireballs. "'Tis was the quickest way to rid us of our problem," she replies.

Oghren grunts, brushing at his beard. "Thunderhumper! Ya caught my bear on fire," he says, staring down at the scorch marks.

"Too many friggin' spiders," Maroth grumbles with a shake of his head.

"Nah, those were mostly thaig crawlers, not spiders," Oghren says with a grin.

Maroth snorts, wiping the blood off his spear. "Can ya tell me what the frig the difference is?"

"Pointier butts," Oghren deadpans.

Daveth lets out a short burst of laughter and Maroth joins in, clapping Oghren on the shoulder as they start walking. "Ah, Oggy, yer alright, yeah?" Maroth says with a grin.

The narrow tunnel tapers off into a small room, littered with old bits of junk and scorch marks from campfires on the ground.

A dwarven man stands half-hidden in the shadows, skin grey and bruised. Scabs cover his arms and a bit of drool hangs from his mouth. He looks at Daveth, eyes dull in the candlelight. "Grey like the stone. Guardians against the darkness. You're like me, holding the taint inside."

Daveth scoffs, shifting in a nervous fashion. "I'm nothin' like you, dwarf. Who are you? What're you doin' down here?"

"No! Yous come to take my claim! It's mine! Mine! I found it. Thieving scoundrels! The spiders'll come and crunch your bones. Crunch, crunch, crunch!"

Maroth exchanges a worried glance with Daveth, slowly laying his spear on the ground and holding out his hands. "Oiy now, we jus' come to talk, right? Easy there," he replies.

The man squints at them, hobbling forward, bent over on himself. "You won't take Ruck's shiny worms and pretty rocks?"

"So, Ruck is it?" Daveth asks, tone cautious.

The man flinches, head twitching strangely on his neck. "Ruck not pretty name, not pretty like your lady," he replies, pointing at Morrigan. "Ruck is small and ugly and twisted."

Morrigan scoffs, rolling her eyes. "Tell us something we do not already know," she replies, crossing her arms over her chest.

"How long have you been down here?" Daveth asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Ruck twitches, and Maroth can see a maggot crawling out of an open wound on the dwarf's arm. Maroth swallows back his lunch that's threatening to come back up, stomach churning with disgust.

"Too long ago, I must think... Five years? Six? Ruck no longer remembers the smells and sights of the city; no, no, no."

Maroth takes a slow, deep breath. "How'd you survive down here?" he asks, looking around at the bits of junk laying on the ground in piles.

"The dark ones don't see you, not if you keep to the shadows. Not if you eat their flesh. Burns when it goes down. Stomach churning, burning, twisting. Ruck didn't like it. But Ruck wanted to live."

Daveth sighs, lip curled. "Disgusting. Right, this looks like it might have been Branka's camp. You see anything interestin' or unusual here, Ruck?"

Ruck shakes his head, eyes rolling around in their sockets. "Bits, bits, bits," he mutters. "Only bits. The crawlers take everything away. They takes things of steel and things of paper. They takes the shinies and the words. Scampering away, away, away to their nests. Hording, keeping, collecting. Crunching."

Oghren steps forward, eyes narrowing as he leans on his ax. "Papers? Words? Sounds like Branka's notes."

"Oh no, ya can't be serious. Tell me we're not about to go searchin' fer a giant spider nest?" Maroth groans, running his hand across his face. "Andraste's flamin' arsecheeks. This is friggin' insane."

Ruck bobs his head, drool hanging from his lips in a long, viscous strand. "The big black spider made a web on the stones. It was big and round, and filled with bones. She might catch a nug, Ruck does decree, but the big black spider, can't catch me," he says.

Daveth raises an eyebrow, glancing over at Oghren. "What's this? Is rhyming a thing you dwarves do once you go mad or something?"

Oghren shrugs, shifting from one foot to the other. "What're ya lookin' at me for? Do I look like I've lost my nutter to you?"

"Well," Maroth replies, dragging out the word with a grin. "Now that ya mention it...."

"Shut up, elf," Oghren replies. "Didn't ask your opinion, did I?"

Morrigan scoffs, looking down at her nails. "Let's get one with it before the ground opens up and swallows us, yes?"

Ruck scratches at a scab, maggots and puss leaking from the wound. "You go to the bone crunchers?"

Daveth nods. "Uh, yeah. I wonder if you were this strange before ya got stuck down here." He pauses, scratching his chin. "How did you get stuck down here?"

"No, no, no! Ruck doesn't want to remember the light. Ruck was very angry and then someone was dead. No soft blankets and warm stew and mother's love. No, no, no!"

"Okay, calm yourself, right? You don't have to remember anything," Daveth replies, eyes widening as he takes a step back, glancing over at Maroth with a worried expression.

"This one is a right nutter. Probably ain't goin' to last much longer down here, no matter how many friggin' darkspawn he eats," Maroth says, shivering at the idea. If one thing is certain, it's that he'd druther die than eat any part of a darkspawn. Bile rises in his throat as he thinks of their stench and rotting, twisted flesh.

Oghren snorts, a rude sound that makes Maroth turn to look at him. "Better off killin' him now, and be done with it, Warden."

"No, no! Crunch your bones!"

Daveth shakes his head, taking a few more steps back. He grabs his bow, keeping eye contact with the crazed dwarf. "Shhh, it's okay Ruck. We're not goin' to hurt you, remember?"

Ruck nods his head up and down in quick snaps. "Yes, yes. Good friend. Good friend who won't make Ruck remember the light. Ruck helps the friend."

Daveth flinches at the words, but brings his bow up to eye level. "That's right. Ruck helped us. Now, I'm going to help you, okay, Ruck?"

Ruck twitches, eyeing the tip of Daveth's arrow. "Friend help the Ruck? Help with the crunchers and the crawlers and the dark ones?"

"I'll help ease the darkness, friend," Daveth replies, pulling back on the bow string. "Just, close your eyes for a moment, and I'll make it all okay."

Ruck shuffles on his feet, the muscles around his mouth jumping in a mad twitch. He closes his eyes, brow furrowed in a frown. "Ruck likes the friend. The friend is good and kind. The friend isn't like the dark ones. Ruck thanks the friend."

A sharp ping echos in the air and the arrow is embedded in Rucks head before Maroth can blink. Right above the eye, in that small, fleshy part under the bone. Ruck falls with a thump. Blood pools around his twisted body. It stains the stone a dark, blackish red.

"I'm sorry, friend," Daveth whispers, looking away. He clears his throat, glancing at Oghren. "What do your people do for their dead?"

Oghren shrugs, eyes roaming around the small room. "Entombed in the stone, usually. Suppose you can bury him though, since we're in a rush."

A heavy sigh escapes Maroth's lips, and he flinches as his lungs push against his broken ribs. "Right then. Dwarven burial, comin' up."

  
~*~*~

 

Jowan's chest is tight as he paces in long line. His feet echo across the hard floor, mingling with the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. His mouth is dry as he thinks of Jalyn, so far away and practically alone.

The missive says they went to a village called Haven. The hairs on the back of his neck are raised and he wrings his hands, sweat dripping across his forehead. "I don't like this," he mumbles. "They shouldn't have gone by themselves."

Alistair places a hand on his shoulder and Jowan can feel the man's pulse beating fast through his palm. "You're worried about the tranquil girl, right?"

Jowan frowns, mousy brown hair falling into his eyes. "Don't call her that," he says. "Please," he adds belatedly, remember the warden also has templar training. "But, yes. I'm worried about Jalyn."

He sighs, running his fingers through his tangled hair. "We should go after them, right? I mean, what if they're in danger?"

Wynne lets out a heavy sigh, her brows furrowed tight together. "They are. I can.... sense it," she replies, eyes darting around in a nervous dance.

"From here? Is that even possible?" Alistair asks, raising his brow.

Wynne shakes her staff at him, eyes flashing. "Don't you worry about that, child. I've been concerned about Melina since you two wardens sent her on this fool mission, so I've kept a... link, of sorts, with her."

Jowan frowns, peering at the elder mage closely. "I haven't heard of that sort of magic, Senior Enchanter," he admits.

A sudden wash of confusion overwhelms him, and he can feel his mind go blank. Swirling darkness hovers in his vision. Growls and whispers echo through his brain.

Then, he's blinking rapidly, staring at Wynne, struggling to remember what he had been doing.

"Right, so we're going to Haven," Alistair says. "The four of us can rescue our companions."

Zevran's frowning, rubbing his forehead as he glances over at Alistair. "Ah, my head is aching for some reason. No matter, if it is to Haven you Grey Wardens want me to go, to Haven I shall go, yes?"

Wynne smiles, and waves the messenger boy over. The young man looks no more than fourteen, small and thin with beady, nervous eyes and dirty hair. "Come here, child. Take this note and give it to the Grey Warden who comes from the Deep Roads," she says, scribbling something in her neat handwriting on the back of Melina's note.

Jowan's heart skips a beat as he meets Alistair's eyes. "We should be cautious," he warns. "I'm not sure I like the sound of any of this."

Zevran nods, fiddling with his daggers as he pushes away from the wall. "I agree, my sullen friend. But I am confident we can rescue our three fair maidens and their slobbering hound, and be back in Orzammar before they even notice we are gone, no?"

Wynne snorts, shaking her head. "Don't be foolish, assassin. If those three have fallen into danger, this will be no easy task."

"Then I will be very cautious. May I snuggle your bosom before we leave? To keep my spirits raised, of course."

Wynne's eyes widen before she laughs. "Oh, I'm sure something would be raised, but I doubt I'd call it your spirits."

"Is that a no?" Zevran asks, grinning.

Jowan rolls his eyes, groaning loudly. He's fairly certain the elven assassin is willing to flirt with anything still breathing.

Wynne's lips turn down in a slight frown. "I'm twice your age, young man," she chides, tone filled with annoyance.

"Ah yes, you are like a fine wine, no?"

"I hate being compared to wine," she grouses as they head toward the large doors that lead out of Orzammar.

A slow grin spreads across Zevran's face as the sunlight hits them dead in the eye. "I hear cheese also ages well."

Alistair perks up at this, shielding his eyes from the bright light of day. "Cheese? I like cheese," he chirps.

Wynne shakes her head, and for a moment her eyes seem to be a soft, golden colour. "You are both ridiculous," she replies, shaking her head.

She turns her head to glance at Jowan, eyes a dull blue. It must have been a trick of the sudden burst of sunlight.

Right?

 

~*~*~

 

Maroth watches, jaw slack, as Hespith scampers off. She slips on dwarven entrails, hands smacking loudly against the ground. She's up again in seconds though, still running. Her poem echos in his mind on repeat, stomach churning as he remembers how deathly grey her skin had looked as she recited it. He wonders if Daveth was onto something, when he asked if all dwarves recite poetry in their insanity. 

_First day, they come and catch everyone._

He watches as Morrigan sniffs the blood on the wall, her brow furrowed. She closes her eyes, casting a spell around the room that makes all the hairs on his arm stand on end.

Maroth clenches his fist. His stomach churns as he remembers watching Hespith recite the poem, over and over, voice broken and hoarse, until Daveth roared in frustration. It had knocked some sense into the woman, though, and she told them what Branka had allowed in order to reach the anvil.

He still can't believe this is how the darkspawn create more of themselves. Or that anyone; human, dwarven, or elven, would allow for this to continue.  The piles of half-eaten corpses stink up the small room, burning his nose with the stench. The blood coats the floor, and he forces his eyes away from the morbid sight.

_Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate._

Fate. He shivers to think that this could be their fate, too, if they don't manage to escape. He swallows, looking over at Daveth. The Warden's face is pale, dark circles standing in vast relief under his eyes, as he runs a hand across his stubble. Judging by his expression, no one had told him about broodmothers when he joined.

They walk along a narrow tunnel, a strange stench wafting in front of them. Fleshy sacks coat the wall, and tentacles sprout from the ground. Maroth rolls to the side, head colliding with a wall as he dodges a rotting tentacle. 

They round a corner, and Maroth's jaw falls open as his heartbeat stops. Never in his wildest imaginings has he ever pictured something like this. Mounds of flesh sit rolled on top of one another- massive, jiggling breasts that do nothing to stir his libido. Instead, he feels his lunch finally coming back up as he empties the contents of his stomach. Vomit splatters against the wall as the bald creature massages its highest breast, grinning and gap toothed.  

It lets out a roar that shakes the stone. Darkspawn spill out from the shadows, surrounding them with gleaming eyes. Already Maroth is regretting his agreement in coming to the Deep Roads. This is a nightmare he could have lived without.

The broodmother regurgitates a green bile that burns his skin as he drives his spear into her body. He grits his teeth past the pain, stabbing her over and over with an intensity he's not felt since his wife died. A small tendril of pity weaves itself into his heart as he realizes that this creature was once a dwarven woman. Someone who had lived, and breathed, and loved just the same as him. Someone with hopes and dreams, twisted into this monster.

 _Eighth day, we hated as sh_ _e is violated._

As the broodmother grabs him with her strange hands, he realizes the darkspawn are a threat that cannot be allowed to continue. No matter what else happens, the darkspawn are a monstrosity that he can barely comprehend.

Maroth slices his dagger across her fingers and she screams in pain. The sound hurts his ear drums as he pushes himself out of her grasp and leaps for the flesh mounds that make up her body.

Morrigan's magic lifts him closer to her. His arm flies out, and he grins as his dagger digs into her flesh. Black blood sprays against his face as he slides down her body, dagger ripping a wicked line down her breasts.

_Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin._

"We're being overwhelmed, we need to stop her from calling for more of her beasts!" Cullen roars, voice strained.

Maroth growls low in his throat. "I sorta figured that out already, pretty boy," he hollers back.

Hespith's face swims in his mind as he tries to imagine the horror she must have felt as she watched her lover sacrifice so many of their people to die, or worse. 

A large boulder whizzes past him, connecting with the beast and shattering upon contact. He runs forward, leaping into the air. He uses his daggers to crawl up the brood mother's body, grateful that she can't fly. He remembers the last time he had climbed up the body of a mindless monster- the dragon in the werewolf lair suddenly seems a lot less terrifying. 

_Now she does feast, as she's become the beast._

Maroth slips, sliding down the broodmother. He clenches his jaw and pulls himself back up, ignoring the sounds of battle behind him. His muscles are taunt and strained as he climbs, slowly making his way to her throat. 

He can hear Daveth cheering as he runs his blade along the creature's neck, ripping at the mounds of fatty tissue as blood stings his eyes. He pushes away, jumping down from the monstrous form and landing weakly on his feet.

Fatigue claws at his mind and body as he slumps to the ground, legs giving out on him. 

A soft scrapping sound brings his head snapping up. A small stone ledge sits above the broodmother's corpse. Hespith stares at them with hollow eyes, tears leaking down her sunken cheeks. 

"The Stone has punished me, dream-friend. I am dying of something worse than death. Betrayal." She turns, dragging one foot behind her as she walks to the edge, body disappearing into the shadows.

There's nothing but silence and then a sickening thud of cracking bones. Maroth's eyes widen as the realization hits him hard. "She's dead, ain't she?" He asks the question softly, almost hesitant. 

But no one replies, because they all know the answer. The last remaining member of Branka's house, save the man she left behind, just threw herself off a ledge to die, broken and alone.

_Now you lay and wait, for their screams will haunt you in your dreams._

 

~*~*~

 

How long have they been down here, stuck in these crumbling tunnels filled with darkspawn filth? It feels like months, but it's probably been more like weeks. Entirely too long, whatever amount of time has passed.

A mess of traps and challenges has taunted them the closer they creeped toward the Anvil. Branka's mad laughter as she forced them ever forward, no hope of escape unless they find the blasted thing, echo in his mind.

And now they're here. Each trap defeated, each puzzle solved. Each crazed golem shattered into bits of rock and dust. Maroth stares up at Caridin, mouth dry of saliva. Bolts of lightning flash around the Paragon's stone body, crackling in the air.

"The Anvil of the Void allowed me to forge a man of stone and steel, and because of it I was made into a Paragon."

His deep gravelly voice booms around them, strong and sure and steady. He pleads with them to listen to his story. Maroth glances at Daveth, and notices the look of exhaustion that clouds the man's face. He nudges him, offering a half-grin. "We got a moment for story time, yeah?" he mutters, and Daveth sighs.

"Yeah, why in the void not?" Daveth shakes his head and looks up at the golem, listening with solemn eyes as Caridin recites his tale.

Morrigan scoffs as the golem speaks, crossing her thin arms over her breasts. "You should not listen to this fool. 'Tis great power this Anvil holds, and you need an army to defeat the blight. You should seize whatever comes your way, warden."

A low growl emits from Cullen, his eyes narrowed dangerously. "It's foul magic, is what it is. It needs to be destroyed."

Daveth sighs, tilting his head back and staring up at the high, vaulted ceiling of the cavern. "What do you think, Tabris?"

"W'at? W'at ya askin' me fer?" Maroth frowns, shaking his head. "Ask me ta steal fer ya, or somethin', an' I'll do it. But don't put this on me. I don't know shit about friggin' golems or magic or wars." He pauses, scratching his chin. "Ya shoulda' brought Alistair."

Daveth cuts him a glare. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. Right then," he replies, turning his gaze back toward the ancient paragon. 

Oghren grunts, scratching his belly. "You didn't ask me, but I'm going to tell you anyway. Branka ain't letting us, or that Anvil, go that easily. You help Caridin, and she'll attack." 

"Yer a nutter if ya think this stone... w'atever is goin' ta let us leave," Maroth replies. "Either way, we're lookin' fer a fight."

Daveth sighs again, crossing his heart in an X shape. "Maker preserve us all," he mutters. "Alright, stoney, we'll destroy the Anvil."

A screech worse than the shrieks make pierces the air, sharp against his ear drums.  "No! The Anvil belongs to me! I sacrificed too much to let you destroy it now," Branka screams, voice cracking as she charges at them, a glowing stone rod in her hand.

She raises it in the air, eyes bloodshot and wild, screaming. Several golems flex, shifting and shaking the ground. Caridin looks around, stone mouth hanging open. "A control rod? Please, you must help me," he begs, lightening crackling brighter around his body.

Daveth clenches his jaw, grabbing his bow. "Oggy, you ready for this?" he asks, meeting the dwarf's eyes.

Oghren frowns, looking toward his wife. "Please, Branka, don't make me do this," he says, voice gruff as he clutches his ax.

"Shut up, you insufferable fool. The Anvil is all that matters, can't you see that?" Branka glares at all of them, teeth bared in a snarl. "I will reclaim what we've lost!"

"Dammit, girl! You're crazy, can't you see what this Anvil has done to you? I don't even recognize you anymore," Oghren replies.

"Or maybe you never knew me to begin with," she says, pointing the control rod at him. "Golems, attack!" 

 

~*~*~

 

Blood coats Maroth's hands as he presses down on Daveth's wound. "Oiy, eyes open, yeah?" He ignores Branka's corpse behind him, grateful she's finally dead. The battle had been long, and fierce, but in the end she had fallen to their determination. 

Daveth coughs, and blood sprays from his lips. "Go on. You need to get back to Orzammar before those damn fools kill each other," he mumbles, eyes hazy.

Maroth nods, frowning. "Right, come on then. Up ya go, right?" He glances over at the cliff Caridin had jumped from, a sigh escaping his lips as he shoves the perfectly made crown in his pack.

"I meant without me, arse. I'm only going to slow you down," Daveth replies, leaning his head back to rest against a rock.

Maroth rips a large piece of his cloak, scoffing. "Yer a friggin' idiot if ya think I'm leaving ya down here," he says, wrapping the cloth around his friend's stomach.

Daveth pushes his hands away. "Stopping this Blight is what matters," he says, ending the sentence with another harsh cough. "So if we need to sacrifice me to do it, go on an' leave me."

Maroth feels his heart thudding beneath his chest as he looks down at Daveth's pale face. The warden's blood is warm in his hands. He doesn't want to lose him. In such a short time, he's become his closest friend. How can he leave Daveth behind? He felt guilty enough about leaving Oghren behind. The dwarf's heartbreak over his wife's deaf was too great, and staying in the Deep Roads killing darkspawn is what he wanted, now.

"There's only two of you friggin' wardens, an' Alistair'll have my head if I come back without ya," he mutters, turning. "Come on then, I'll carry yer foolish arse back to Orzammar. Get up."

"Wolfy...." Daveth's voice is soft, faint, and filled with pain. "I'll-"

Maroth grunts, patting his back. "Come on then, climb up. I ain't leavin' without ya, so save us some time an' stop arguin'," he replies.

He listens as Daveth shifts, grabbing a hold of his shoulders. "You _are_ an idiot," Daveth mumbles as he wraps his arms around Maroth's neck. "Absolute idiot, wolfy."

"I'll take that as a thanks," Maroth replies. He grunts as he stands up, locking his arms under Daveth's legs. "Right then, let's get on with it. An' don't even think about dyin' up there, yeah? I ain't carryin' a friggin' corpse."

Daveth chuckles, the sound vibrating against Maroth's ear. "Yeah, yeah, I hear you."

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the length of time in between updates. This chapter was a pain in my arse to write, and I'm still not happy with it. Feedback is always welcome. Something about the flow of this chapter just bugs me but it was high time I just publish and get over it and move on to the next chapter. We're closing in on the home stretch now!

Kolgrim's breath stinks of dried blood and rotten food. His anger burns along her skin, like flames licking at her flesh. Melina sucks in a sharp breath, straightening her spine against the pain still tearing at her back. Her magic is gone. But she knows it will return. Like water is wet, and fire burns, her body holds magic as natural as breathing. _It will come back, it will._ She repeats the words over and over as she meets Kolgrim's stare, unflinching. Her sensing of emotions is already returning, in small flashes in her mind.

"What do you want from us?" she asks. Her voice only shakes a little, and she sends a prayer of thanks to the Maker.

He raises his eyebrows, her question obviously giving him pause. He strokes his chin as a grin splits across his face. "Want? Well, I suppose you might be able to... make up for this transgression."

Leliana scoffs, followed by a yelp as one of their captors kicks at her legs, causing her to fall to her knees. Her face is pinched in an angry snarl as she glares upward. "We have made no transgressions," she says, voice full of passion. "Only the Maker can judge me."

Kolgrim's magic dances along Melina's skin and she shivers, yearning to reach out and touch it, somehow. She holds back a whimper, refusing to let him see her weakness. "We serve the Blessed Andraste Herself!" he shouts, voice echoing in the small cavern chamber.

Melina takes a deep breath, hands shaking. "Wait! If you," she begins, pausing to take another breath. "If you serve Andraste, truly, then we should be allies. We are loyal Andrastians. Please, show us this Risen Andraste you speak of." She prays none of these cultist are Spirit Healers, and will not sense her lie hidden within a truth.

Kolgrim hesitates, narrowing his eyes at her. "You have seen the error of your ways, then?"

Melina bows her head, letting her tangled, blood soaked curls hide her face. "We have, Father Kolgrim. Please, we wish to look upon Andraste's face and be blessed anew." The words taste like ashes on her tongue, a rotting bed of half truths and lies that make her insides twist. Just one more sin to her growing list. _I'm falling._

She feels Leliana's surprise before it withdraws into uncertainty. Soft, hesitant, a breath against her ear. Melina glances to Jalyn, but green eyes stare back at her with a glazed expression.

"Come then," Kolgrim booms, waving his arms with a wide smile. His voice is jovial, brimming on the edge of laughter as he turns, robes swishing on the ground. "Let us all look upon Her beauty."

Melina pushes herself to her feet, every muscle screaming that she should rest, sleep, heal. Leliana shoots her a questioning look as she stands. Shaking her head, Melina sighs and looks away. Please, just play along, she silently prays.

Tiny dragonlings scuttle around her, chirping and looking up at her with hungry eyes as she shuffles after Kolgrim. The cavern exit is low and she ducks her head before stepping out into the light. It bounces off the snow and into her eyes, far too bright. She blinks, tears dripping down her cheeks, trying to see past the blinding light. A drake chitters nearby and she shivers in the cold. The mountain air is thin, and she takes small, shallow breaths through her nose.

Ice and snow seep into her socks, her boots stolen by one of the cultists. Splintering pain shoots up from her toes, all the way up her ankles and into her calves which each step. She limps along awkwardly, half-blind and feet turning numb.

A roar shakes the ground. Her feet slip as she tries to keep her balance. Her ankle lets out a resounding crack as pain shatters Melina's vision. She lets out a soft cry, biting through her lip as her knees slam into the ground. Blood fills her mouth, and with the taste of blood comes tendrils of magic, whispering in her head like a promise. She pushes it back, keeping it hidden behind her will.

This is blood magic, a voice cautions in her mind. I know, she whispers back.

A dragon lands in front of them, enormous in both breadth and length. Deep red and purple scales glitter in the light, magnificent in their luminescence. It lets out another roar, breath hot enough that even from this distance, it dances along Melina's skin like a blistering wind. Glowing purple eyes gaze upon her, and she finds herself in awe even while her body trembles in fear.

_When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me and the taste of blood fills my mouth, then, in the pounding of my heart, I hear the glory of creation._

She crosses her heart, heart pounding beneath her chest as Kolgrim approaches the great beast, hands raised in a gesture of peace. The dragon's front claws beat against the ground, sending up clouds of snow and ice. Both beautiful and terrifying at the same time, Melina's breath hitches in her throat at the sight.

_Do not grieve for me, Maker of All. Though all others may forget You, Your name is etched into my every step. I will not forsake You, even if I forget myself._

The dragon shakes its head, snake-like neck lowering to Kolgrim's height. The mage smiles, softly stroking her snout like one would stroke the head of a horse, whispering gentle words in the beast's ear. A million questions burst through Melina's mind as she watches the two of them, man and beast, greeting each other. But even from where she stands, she cannot tell who has control over who.

The ground shakes once again as the dragon takes flight. The wind from the flapping of its wings would have knocked them back to the ground, had they not already been kneeling.

"Is she not amazing?" Kolgrim whispers, gazing up with a look of unadulterated adoration on his face.

Melina pushes herself to her feet, wincing as she leans on her bad ankle. "Um, yes, she is quite awe inspiring. I had never in all my imaginings pictured something as... fierce as she."

Kolgrim nods in agreement, a small, ugly smile twisting his lips. "Now, you may hear your task. If you complete this, you can join us in our guardianship over the true Andraste." He pauses, looking over at Leliana with a tight frown before continuing. "I shall give you a vile of her blood. Inside, lies a relic of her former self, ashes kept tightly guarded by a dangerous fool who has not seen the truth. You must break the hold these ashes have over Our Lady."

"You... You want me to destroy them?" Melina's eyes widen, fear making her heart quicken. The very thought of such a sin, and committed by her own hand.... No. She could never taint Andraste so. She would sooner die.

A frown turns Kolgrim's lips down as he shakes his head, meeting Melina's gaze again. "Taint? What I seek is not destruction. No, just a drop of blood. Just a drop. How can you taint the ashes with the blood the same being? They are both Andraste, only with us dwells the living and with the Guardian? Well, there lies the dead."  
  
Melina lets a slow breath out past her lips, a visible puff forming in front of her as she nods. "Alright, Father Kolgrim. We will... do as you ask," she replies, staring at the snow. She keeps the truth hidden, making a vow inside of her heart that she will protect the sacred ashes with whatever it takes.

Kolgrim motions with a grand gesture toward a door at the far end of a narrow crevice, the wind blowing so hard it sounds like an out of tune whistle. "Go on then. Hurry up and be done with it."

The trek down narrow passageway seems to take forever, looming shadows covering the path. A cold, bony hand takes hers, clutching it tightly. She looks over at Jalyn, face cast in the darkness of the cliff overhang, and tries to read her expression. The elven woman's green eyes are fixed straight ahead. She sucks in her cheeks, making the bones in her face jut out even more so than usual.

The doors creaks open by themselves, as if some force from the inside had pushed them forward. "So you come to gaze upon the Ashes of Our Beloved Andraste? I have been waiting for such a moment, ages beyond counting."

The cavern is dark, lit only by a small torch hanging on the far wall. Melina pauses just inside the entrance, blinking past the darkness while her eyes adjust. That voice... Deep, and filled with strange magic she doesn't recognize. She uses what little of her magic has returned to feel around, trying to ascertain what awaits them inside. She stumbles as she limps forward, pain in her sprained ankle still sharp, as her mind brushes against the mind of a creature she can't place. A spirit, perhaps? Or something else, something more and yet less?  

"You are a spirit, Ser," Melina accuses, her magic slowly seeping back in through her the longer they stand there. The Guardian registers in her mind as not quite human, not quite here.  Something other, and far away, but close enough to touch. She shakes her head, confusion clogging her mind when she tries to peer into his thoughts.

The creature blinks at her, cold eyes blank as its voice booms, echoing around them. "I am the Guardian, and I protect the Ashes from those who might enter with tainted goals. You will undergo the Gauntlet, and determine your worth."

Melina glances over at Leliana, brows knitted together in a tight line of confusion. "He- He feels like a spirit, I think, but one unlike any I've heard of before. I... I don't know what he is. Something old, very old."

Leliana nods, eyes gleaming with rapture and awe. "This place is holy, I can feel it. We should walk with soft steps and pure hearts, yes?"

Jalyn frowns, body trembling ash she clutches her head. "Too much, don't make me see, I don't want to see!" Her voice breaks as she shouts the last word, bending over with her hands tangled in her hair.

Melina spins around, grabbing Jalyn by the shoulders. "Jalyn? What's happening?"

"It-hurts-it-hurts-it-hurts!" Jalyn screams, words tumbling together in a rush of pain and panic.

"You sacrificed everything you felt, and no one ever knew. When you looked upon her, you no longer felt conflicted. Was that regret you felt when tranquility stole your senses, or relief?" The Guardian tilts his head as he speaks, tendrils of his curiosity brushing against Melina's mind.

Jalyn's eyes widen as tears pour down her cheeks. "I- I don't know. Make it stop. _Please_."

"My mind touches yours, but another has already begun the process. I will withdraw and you will return to peace."

Melina breaths a sigh of relief as Jalyn's expression calms. It's not the hazy blankness but neither is it still full of anguish. Her heart beats painfully against her chest, her friend's torment fluttering against her mind even now.

"And what of you, healer? You, too, sacrificed something great. One you called a ment-"

"That- How do you know all of this?" Melina asks, voice barely above a whisper.

The Guardian pauses. "I touch your mind, and it comes to me in visions and flickering thought. Your guilt is heavy, but if given a second chance, would you sacrifice one to save the other again?"

Melina bows her head. "Yes, Guardian. I would, and I would hate myself no less for it."

She doesn't deserve to walk the sacred halls of Andraste's final resting place. _Maleficar_. The word burns bright in her mind, a dark stain on her soul that she cannot release. Wynne's fear filled expression as Izanami took her still haunts her every waking moment, branded on her heart. She failed her. She failed Jalyn, too. It should have been her who was made tranquil. She was the one who was always weak.

He turns his gaze toward Leliana, who sticks her chin out with stubbornness. "The Maker has spoken only to Andraste, do you find yourself to be her equal? Or did you make up your vision, hoping to outshine your drab Brothers and Sisters?"

"I never said I was her equal, no. But my vision is real, I would never make up such a tale," she claims, and Melina can feel her certainty brush against her mind.

Melina sighs. "Why do you ask these things, Ser Guardian?"

"I was curious. It has been so long since I've touched the mind of another. Thank you for indulging me. You may enter the Gauntlet when you are ready. It will test your mettle and your strength."

Another door swings open, and lyrium sings from inside the temple, a sound so loud even Melina can hear it. "I've never felt such a large presence of lyrium in one place," she breathes, glancing around as they enter the room.

She raises a brow at the dual rows of half-formed spirits in the shape of people. They open their mouths, and speak in unison, sounding like a song in the night. "We offer riddles to open the door. Get them wrong, and you'll start a war. Answer wisely, and we'll be kind. Take your time, our words you shall unwind."

Leliana claps her hands together, delight shining her blue eyes. "Oh, puzzles! What fun!"

Jalyn narrows her eyes. "You're a nutter, you know that, right?"

Leliana shrugs goodnaturedly. "I like to think I am enthusiastic."

"Right. Enthusiastic." Jalyn rolls her eyes, lips pursed.

Melina giggles at their banter, and turns toward the first spirit. "Alright. You have a puzzle for us?"

Jalyn frowns her disapproval, but doesn't speak as each spirit recites a poem. The questions are easy, and Melina thinks back to a similar time when spirits offered her puzzles. The image of a great bear with protruding spikes, one eye missing and the lazy droll tone of his voice flash in her memory. Do all demons love riddles so? It doesn't take them long to solve them, and Leliana's glee spreads with each correct answer.

"Wonderful, the door's open. Onward we go, yes?" Leliana asks, tone light.

Melina hesitates, glancing over at Leliana. "You're still injured? I can feel it, now. My magic... Something about this place has returned it to me sooner than I expected,"she says, and it's only partly a lie. "May I heal you, Sister?"

Leliana pauses, glancing over her shoulder. "Ah, yes. Just in case there is something more frightening than rhyming spirits here, yes? You should heal yourself as well, my friend."

"Yes," Melina agrees, drawing up on what feels like an endless pool of mana as she places a hand against the lyrium filled walls. She draws it up and up, until it flows over and around her in a bright white light, driving back every ache and pain until she feels drunk and dizzy with the power. She opens her eyes as voices sing in her mind, a soft humming that sounds like a hundred secrets whispering in her ear.

"Maker's breath," she says, voice low. The lyrium threatens to suck her in and overwhelm her senses, more power than any one person should ever hold inside them.

She pushes it down, back inside the veins snaking through the walls and out of her head. She takes a slow, deep breath and tries again, drawing only a small tendril from the lyrium. She lets it enter her, but not fill her up to the top. Faith twinkles in her mind, flowing out along the outstretched fingers of her magic, tracing along the wounds that cover Leliana's body. She pulls together the skin, knitting flesh and healing old bruises that seep deep inside sore muscle tissue.

Leliana sends a small smile her way. "Thank you, Melina."

Jalyn's expression is neutral as she stares. "You okay, shem?"

"I'm... fine," Melina finishes, pushing the wall of uncertainty down. "I'm fine."

 

~*~*~

 

Sounds of battle echo in Maroth's ear; a dog's howl echoing behind a dragon's roar. At least the dragon sounded far away, somewhere deep withing the mountains still. The village had been a graveyard that held nothing but corpses and burnt houses, though none of the bodies resembled anyone they recognize. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge in trepidation. "I don't think I like it here," Maroth mutters, exchanging a glance with an only partially healed Daveth. "Maybe you stay back, yeah?" 

The tunnel begins to widen as they get closer to a cavern, opening up like a great mouth pulled back in a yawn, complete with teeth. Stalactites and stalagmites cast long shadows on the ground, jagged and pointy in the low light.

Daveth grins, nudging his good shoulder against Maroth's. "Right, I'll stay back but stick close by, yeah? I'm not missing out on seeing the look on ol' Alibear's face when he sees us rescuing him," he quips.

Morrigan laughs as she brings up her staff in a now familiar swirl. Daveth grabs her wrist, one eyebrow raised. He meets her golden eyed stare, thumb rubbing against her pulse point.

"You wish me not to shift? You need only have asked," she purrs, pulling her arm away.

Maroth watches as Daveth holds on for a brief moment before letting go. He winks at Maroth as he turns, and Maroth shakes his head in return. "Careful, or they'll call ya a right scoundrel."

"With any luck, they'll have good reason to," Daveth quips back as they enter battle, wincing as he draws his bow. Maroth takes up a guard-like position around Daveth, eyes searching across the small room.

He spots Zevran darting behind a robed man with blood stained wrists. The assassin's daggers sink in through the mage's rib cage seconds before Maroth's spear slides across a rogue's gut, innards spilling forth as he screams. Maroth grins at his bloodied reflection gleaming off the new tip they'd put on the spear- a long, curved blade that reminded him of a fatter, shorter scythe.

Maroth catches Zevran's eyes from across the room, lips still curled up. "Oiy, glad to see Alistair's heroics didn't get ya killed," he hollers, ducking under a high blow from an axe. He swings a leg out, knocking the soldier down to the ground. "Guess we'll talk later, yeah? 'Bout wa't a stupid idea this was?"

He can hear Zevran's laugh, smooth like velvet, and a shiver runs down his spine. "My apologies. I should have waited for you, I see this now," he quips back.

The sharp ripping sound of Maroth's helmet splitting apart echoes in his ears as he's hit by the blunt end of a weapon. Zevran appears out of nowhere, daggers slicing through Maroth's attacker. Blood sprays across his face as he stumbles to his feet. Zevran's armour is singed, and Maroth blinks around until he sees a mage. It only takes him a second to realize Zevran must have tossed himself through the mage's fire to reach him.

"Ya could'a gotten yerself killed doin' that. Friggin' shite," Maroth grumbles as grabs a small dagger from his belt. He takes careful aim as Zevran tosses a smoke bomb that hides them both from view. The dagger buzzes through the air, landing with a twunk between the mage's eyes.

"I couldn't very well let one of the better lovers I've had be killed so quickly, yes? And just when it is starting to get cold at night, at that," Zevran replies before darting into the shadows after another rogue cultist.

The words stun Maroth long enough that an arrow grazes his arm as he belatedly swerves. "W'at a friggin time to go an' say somethin' like that," Maroth mutters under his breath, turning around and shoving the sharp end of his spear through some blighter's belly.

"Well, that was rousing battle," Alistair quips, wiping the blood from his brow as the last of their enemies fall.

Jowan's face is pale as he bends over, hands on his knees and panting. Sweat rolls down his face as he takes slow, deep breaths.

Maroth grunts, leaning against the wall and favouring his wounded arm. "Well it did get the blood flowing, yeah? Just wish it had been less of our own," he mutters. He feels Wynne's healing spell wash over him, but there's something different about it. It feels like needles against his skin, pricking tiny holes as it mends flesh and bone. It's not gentle like Melina's. And it doesn't heal the entirety of his wound.

Zevran slides in next to him, their arms resting close enough together to barely be touching. Still, a sense of warmth radiates from Zevran, and Maroth scoots a touch closer, letting himself smile when Zevran doesn't move away at the contact.

Cullen groans, gripping his head. His fingers grip his tangled curls until his knuckles go white. "Blasted void," the templar mutters, eyes bloodshot. "We're out of lyrium."

Dane barks at the entrance, hackles raised as he bounds in circles. Wynne bends low, a frown on her face, and places a hand on the dog. He calms under her touch, small eyes turning glassy. 

Maroth watches carefully as Alistair also frowns, brows crinkling as he digs through his pack. "I have a vial in here, I think," he mumbles, biting his lip.

"What? Why?" Cullen narrows his eyes, glaring suspiciously at the warden.  "I thought you said they never started you on the lyrium?"

Alistair shrugs, face lighting up in a grin. "Ah, here it is," he says, tossing it towards Cullen. "And they didn't. Melina gave it to me, asked me to hold onto to it for her in case of emergencies. Well, I'd say this qualifies."

Cullen catches the vial, lips curled into a tight frown. "Mellie gave this to you?" He lets out a sigh before downing the entire thing. "We ran out in the Deep Roads," he admits, glancing at Daveth.

"What? And you didn't think to friggin' tell me?" Daveth asks, a terse frown on his face.

Zevran grabs some bandages from his pack, one eyebrow raised in amusement, and starts tending Maroth's arm. Maroth smiles at his lover, gratitude washing over him.

"There was nothing to be done about it, warden. Unless you know how to mine lyrium and then refine it into a drinkable form?"

Wynne scoffs as she gets to her feet. "Don't be foolish, young man. You can hardly keep secrets from your travelling companions," she replies, eyes flashing. For a moment, they seem to change colour. A trick of the light?

Morrigan rolls her eyes, lips pursed in a sneer. "Fool."

Daveth scratches the side of his nose, grunting as he looks away. "Right, well. Don't keep it from me next time. Last thing we need is you freakin' out from lyrium withdrawals." 

"Withdrawals?" Maroth asks, raising his eyebrow. "W'at's this?"

Cullen rubs the back of his next as they bandage their wounds and loot the dead. "Lyrium. Templars, we need it for our full powers to work. But, it's a bit addicting."

Alistair lets out a low laugh, but it doesn't sound very amused to Maroth. "A bit? Drives you stark mad, is what it does. I've never had any trouble performing any templar related skills, and I've never drank a drop of lyrium."

"The Chantry wouldn't lie to us," Cullen shoots back, narrowing his eyes with a snarl.

Alistair just shrugs, a forced smile curling his lips. "Right, if it helps you sleep at night. Let's get a move on, Melina and the others can't be much farther," he replies.

Jowan wipes his brow, eyes narrowed as he regains his stamina. "The Chantry lies all the time. They tell us mages are evil and that we have to pay for our sin. What sin is it to be born? We didn't  _ask_ to be mages. I'd give up this power in a heartbeat, if it meant I could be free."

Cullen growls low in his throat, fingers clutching his sword. His knuckles are white as he glares at the former blood mage. "The Chantry protects us. Magic is a sin. You should feel ashamed for having it."

Jowan hesitates, a look of fear flashing across his face. He opens his mouth to reply, but it's Wynne who speaks instead. "You are both ridiculous," she says, wisps of grey hair tumbling around her face. She looks to Jowan, a stern look on her face. "You know very well the dangers of magic, boy. The circles protect us as much as they protect everyone else." A strange look crosses her face, as if her own words are hard to spit out. "And you, templar. There is no shame in being a mage. I know what you went through was hard, but can you really paint us all with the same dark brush?"

Jowan nods, greasy hair falling forward. "Yeah, what about Melina? You didn't mind her magic when you were flirting with her back at the circle."

Cullen grits his teeth. "That was an ill-advised infatuation. Melina is just as dangerous as any other mage. Whatever I felt once, is now gone."

"Melina isn't dangerous. She wouldn't hurt a fly. She's a sweet girl," Alistair says, sheathing his sword.

"For once, Alistair speaks and does not sound like an utter fool. Melina would harm no one. The girl can barely stomach battle," Morrigan says, disdain dripping from every word.

Maroth grins as Zevran finishes tying up the bandage on his arm. "Feelin' a little sweet on the pretty mage, eh Alistair?"

Alistair's cheeks turn bright pink. "What? I never said, I mean, I just look after her. Like, like an older brother!"

"An older brother would not stare at her swaying hips so," Zevran quips, eyes twinkling as they begin walking down a narrow corridor.

The place reeks of dragon shit, which in all honesty isn't much of an improvement over nug shit. Snow crunches under Maroth boots as he chuckles, enjoying the way even the back of Alistair's neck is turning red with embarrassment as they travel further through the maze of caverns. 

"Shut up, assassin," Alistair mutters.

Cullen clears his throat, and the light from Daveth's torch reflects off his eyes. "You shouldn't dally with her. She's a mage, and it is dangerous, despite what you naively believe."

Alistair looks over his shoulder, and his face is set in hard lines that make Maroth shiver. "It isn't any of _your_ business, for one. Secondly, I trust her more than you."

As Cullen glares at the back of Alistair's head, Maroth begins to regret his teasing. He had only meant it in jest, but the tension between the two men is now thick in the air.

"You shouldn't dally with her," Cullen repeats. "All mages need to be watched. She appears sweet now, but if you back any mage into a corner, they'll summon demons to protect themselves."

Maroth scoffs, exchanging glances with Zevran. "Well, yeah. I mean, who wouldn't, right? You back anyone in ta a corner like t'at, bad shit happens."

"But no one besides mages have that much power at their fingertips! No one else can call demons to them so easily!"

Alistair sighs. "You're wrong. Melina would never make a deal with a demon just to save herself."

"You don't know them like I-"

"No, I don't," Alistair interrupts. "But I know Melina. She rescued me, in the Fade. She's not who you think she is."

"Yet," Cullen mutters.

 

 

~*~*~

 

The holy ashes of Andraste. Melina takes a deep breath, awe and wonderment filling her up. She had never thought she'd actually see them. Something so sacred, so pure... "I am not worthy," she whispers, crossing her heart.

_Cast off the trappings of worldly life, and cloak yourself in the goodness of spirit. King and slave, lord and beggar, be born anew in the Maker's sight._

She places one foot forward. A warm breeze blows against her bare skin as the flames flicker in front of her. She closes her eyes as she passes through the fire, and it tickles along her flesh. 

The guardian appears before her, flickering in and out as he smiles. "You have been through the trials of the gauntlet. You have walked the path of Andraste, and like Her, you have been cleansed. You have proven yourself worthy, pilgrim. Approach the sacred ashes."

 _You have proven yourself worthy_ _._ The words echo in her mind. She doesn't feel worthy. She feels dirty. Unclean. She is a sinner, a maleficar. She does not deserve to see her beloved Andraste's final resting place. 

Jalyn grabs her hand, face blank as a sheet of paper. "We should finish this quickly," she says, and her tone is bland as it breaks Melina's heart.

Melina squeezes Jalyn's hand, offering her a small smile as she walks forward. A tall statue of Andraste stands before them, an ever-flickering flame lit in her outstretched hand. Her mouth is stretched open, as if in song, and her other hand is placed over her heart. "Maker, be my guide," Melina whispers.

"I... I.... I don't know what to say," Leliana whispers.

The vial of dragon's blood is warm in her hand. Melina stares down at the tiny glass vial, the dark black blood congealing as she stands there.

"You are not truly going to taint Her ashes, are you?" Leliana's brows are furrowed tight, her hand reaching for her dagger.

Melina shakes her head. She throws the vial against the far wall. It shatters, staining the wall with blood. "I would never do such a thing," she replies. She closes her eyes. "Oh, brother Genitivi, I am so sorry you could not be here to see such a wondrous sight."

Jalyn tilts her head as she stares up at the statue. "She looks a bit barbaric, yeah?"

"Do not say such a thing! We are in Her Sacred halls, and you dare speak so?" Leliana's voice is lowered in a growl as she glares at the elf.

Jalyn raises an eyebrow. "Did I somethin' was wrong with being barbaric? Uptight snob," she mutters.

"I am not uptight!"

Melina sighs as she grabs the tiniest of pinches from the ashes. "Please, you two, that's enough. We shouldn't argue, here least of all," she gently admonishes.

The Guardian appears again, stare at the stain on the wall. "You protect Her ashes when it would have been easier to destroy them. The ones who await you will seek your destruction." He peers closely at Melina, strange eyes flashing. "You are not as tainted as you believe. Go forth outside, and you will see what you do not expect."

Jalyn's lips turn into a tight frown. "What in the Maker's name is  _that_ supposed to mean? Bloody riddles."

The Guardian almost seems to grin. "Go, and you will see."

Melina nods, storing the small leather pouch in her pack. She pushes hard on the doors, taking a new path back to the outside. She does not relish the idea of meeting Kolgrim again, nor the fight that is sure to take place. 

_"Miss Melli-Melli-Melina, you dropped your book," Cullen says, shifting awkwardly as he hands her a leather bound tome._

_Melina beams as she takes the book from him. Their fingers brush and heat shoots up her neck. She curtsies, still smiling. "Thank you, Ser Cullen."_

_Cullen rubs the back of his neck, cheeks bright red. "Of co-course, Miss Melli-Melina."_

_Melina tilts her head, her short curls falling in her eyes. "When you say my name like that, it sounds like 'Mellie'."_

_His cheeks go even redder as he stands there. "I- I'm sorry, Miss."_

_Realizing her mistake, she blushes. "No, I didn't mean it like that. It sounds like a nickname. Like something a friend would say." She bites her lip, hesitating. "I like it when you say my name," she adds in a whisper._

_"Then, wo-would it be alright if I called you Miss Mellie?" he asks, rubbing his neck again._

Melina shakes her head, pulling herself from the old memory. She had courted danger back them, to say such things to a templar. But Cullen had made her heart flutter like mad every time she thought of him, and worse still when she saw him. If she's honest with herself, he still does. Is it love? She's not sure what love feels like, but she wants more than anything to heal the brokenness she felt inside him now.

His torment feels like burning fire every time she tries to sense him. Chaotic. Angry. His pain is palpable, raw and bitter against her skin. And she knows, because of her magic, he will never allow her close enough to help. 

The door at the entrance of the tunnel bursts open, sunlight pouring in. Melina steps outside, hand already reaching for her staff, when she's pulled into a tight hug. Metal armour pinches her skin and the smell of dry blood fills her nose. "Al- Alistair?" she whispers as the warden holds her close.

He pulls back, his entire face beat red. "Uh. Hello," Alistair says awkwardly. 

Leliana lets out a loud burst of laughter behind her, a tinkling sound that fills the air. "Oh, I see you have found us, Warden Alistair. Magnificent." 

Melina's eyes are wide as she stares around the clearing. Drakes and dragonlings and human corpses litter the ground. Nausea burns her stomach at the stench of death. "Maker's breath. They're all dead," she whispers, and the regret and gratitude mingle in heart, conflicting. Her eyes roam, looking at each of her companions in turn. Cullen's face is cast in shadows, anger rolling off his entire body. Daveth and Maroth stand together, blood covering their armour. Izanami's expression is smug, the opposite of how Wynne would look. Briefly, she wonders where the others are.

Alistair frowns, peering closely. "Are you alright, Melina?" he asks, and she can feel his warm concern flowing from him in waves.

She forces a smile, nodding her head. "Ah, yes. Least, I shall be. I just didn't expect to see you all again, and so soon. Thank you, for coming to our rescue. I am not sure we would have survived the battle against Kolgrim."

Cullen grunts as he wipes the blood off his blade. "From what we hear, you hardly needed rescuing. You're a monster, for agreeing to Kolgrim's twisted desires," he spits out, eyes narrowed and full of hate.

Melina's eyes well up with tears as her heartbeat speeds up. She takes a step forward, lip quivering. "Ser Cullen, I-"

"Are you to going to deny your sin, mage? The maleficar told us what you agreed to do, before we killed him," Cullen says, interrupting her explanation.  

Jalyn pushes past her, eyes narrowed. Her hand flies out, connecting with Cullen's cheek. The sound of skin striking skin seems to echo. Cullen's eyes are wide as he sputters incoherently at the elf.

"You have no idea what you're talking about, templar pig," she spits, more venom in her voice than Melina has heard in over a year. "Melina would never taint the ashes. She only pretended to agree, and if you knew her half as well as you pretend to, you'd know that."

Cullen raises his sword, pressing it against Jalyn's neck with fire in his eyes. " _You_ are _supposed_ to be tranquil, abomination," he replies.

A sudden blast of magic slams into him, forcing him to the ground. His blade slips, and a thin line of blood drips down Jalyn's neck. Izanami stands behind them, eyes flashing with rage. "That is enough," she says, voice raised. 

Maroth shifts, scratching the side of his nose. "Right, we kill each other later," he grumbles, walking toward his cousin. He presses a thumb against the wound on her throat. "Ah, looks small enough. Yer alright, yeah?"

Jalyn nods, eyes glazing over. "I am fine," she replies, voice turning back to the neutral sound of the tranquil. "Please forgive my outburst. The emotions have retreated once more."

Maroth sighs, patting Jalyn's head. His lips part as if he's about to speak as Cullen quickly gets to his feet. 

"You used magic against a templar," Cullen says with a growl, glaring at Izanami.

The demon shrugs. "I did. And I shall again if you put our mission at risk. What these wardens are trying to do is more important than your goals, boy," she replies, and the way her tone mimics Wynne's so closely makes Melina's heart ache.

Daveth clears his throat. "Alright, all of you. I'm fed up with the bickering. I've sent the others back to the caverns to make camp. Let's go and get some rest before we leave this blasted place."

"Did you really find Andraste's ashes?" Alistair asks, tone full of hope.

Melina smiles and he breathes a sigh of relief. "I did. We should give them to the Arl at once," she replies.

His smile is full and bright as he looks at her. "Yes, we should. Are you certain you're alright?"

"I'm fine," she lies. "Thank you."

"I will make sure the templar order knows what the Grey Wardens really are," Cullen vows, turning on his heal and heading toward the collapsing temple. 

A feeling of trepidation washes over Melina as she stares at Cullen's retreating form. His shields are raised against her emphatic abilities, blocking any attempt she makes to read him.  _Please, Maker, watch over him. Save him from the darkness that threatens to tear him apart._


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to OfQuirkyExcellence for some RP work on this scene!

Jalyn peers through the giant hole in the temple's roof before closing her eyes against the pain, struggling to keep control. Memories keep flashing in her mind, dark images of past events that she wants so desperately to forget.

She inhales, pulling in air through her nose and releasing it through her mouth. She pushes aside the flickering images of templars with leering gazes. Pushes back the sense memory of hands rough against her skin. Instead, she tries to focus on the better memories, the few fleeting moments of happiness lost within the tide of blackness surrounding Kinloch Hold.

The wind blows her long cinnamon red hair and she leans her head back to enjoy the fresh air. She never thought she’d experience freedom. A few tears flow down her sunken cheeks and she turns her back to the camp where the others move in hurried motions to put up tents.

_"I touch your mind, and it comes to me in visions and flickering thought. Your guilt is heavy, but if given a second chance, would you sacrifice one to save the other again?"_

What did the Guardian mean by that? Melina’s face is clear in her mind, round and wholesome. Her heart skips a beat as her breath catches in her throat.

The crunching of snow beneath leather boots makes her shoulders tense. She huddles in on herself, trying to hide in the darkness. A cloak settles along her shoulders, a blanket of warmth against the howling cold that blows through the temple.

Jalyn flinches at the close contact, the sound of voices buzzing in her brain still. But her thin fingers slowly curl around the fabric of the cloak, pulling tighter around her body. “Thanks,” she mumbles, leaning her chin against her knees.

A soft voice whispers her name and she recognizes it instantly. "Jalyn... ."

Jowan. The name makes her heart flutter like a butterfly’s wings trapped in a small cage. Memories of their stolen embraces flicker in her mind. Kisses hidden in the shadows. His breath, hot against her cheek, is as strong in her mind now as it was the day they took her emotions. His large, square hands, cupping her breasts.

She had loved him. Deeply. Her body had longed for him like a child yearns for home. Now? Now what she feels is faint, forgotten, hidden behind the tranquility. But their memories linger in her heart, embossed inside her. Slowly slipping forward like water through a sieve, re-entering her mind.

Jalyn struggles to think of words to say, something to stop the silence growing between them, but the words stay stuck in her throat. A bird without a voice, without wings, is hardly a bird anymore. Instead, she feels like a mouse, scuttling along the ground with no purpose or will. She closes her eyes against the pain, shutting off the tears that threaten to fall. She wishes the emotions would stop, that the peaceful haze of tranquility could steal her mind and thoughts again. She feels it coming closer, slipping into her being like an old friend. The constant battle between emotions and tranquility is exhausting, but only when she feels it.

There's quiet numbness and then the whispering of voices shout louder in her head. The way the lyrium had burned against her forehead. The screaming pain of everything she had ever felt being ripped away from her in one swift move. It hurts. A sharp pain like a knife between her ribs. She can't breathe. Her lungs refuse to take in air as she claws at her head, tears streaming down her face. It hurts, burning worse than anything she's felt. She forces a breath, lungs burning.

Jowan's face is suddenly in front of her, brow crinkled and eyes wide. "Love, are you okay? What is it?"

"It hurts," she nearly screams, voice breaking. "Too much, too much, I don't want it! Make it stop!"

Wynne's face soon joins Jowan's, golden eyes flashing. "Shh, calm yourself, child," she soothes, resting a hand against Jalyn's cheek. "You must stay in control. To feel this much after a year of feeling nothing at all is overwhelming for you, I know. But you must be strong. You can't give up. You mustn't give up."

A rush of magic flows through her, gentle and soothing as it pushes back the stronger emotions. Jalyn takes slow, deep breaths, counting to ten in her head.

One... Two... Three....

_Melina's face is lit in a bright smile as they giggle together, hidden under a worn blanket. Jalyn's heart swells with amazement. She never thought to find a friend here, let alone a human. A templar hollers for lights out and the remaining candlelight vanishes. They wait with baited breath until the sounds of his clanking armour fades away before bursting into soft giggles again._

Four... Five... Six...

_"I- I- I like you, Jalyn," Jowan whispers, eyes glued to the ground. Jalyn laughs as she gently pushes him against a wall._

_"Then kiss me, human," she replies._

Seven... Eight... Nine...

_"There... That's it! Good, now hold the mana in, wait for the right moment, and then release," Enchanter Leorah commands, a smile bright across her thin face. "Very good, my pupil."_

_Jalyn's face is dripping in sweat but the fire is lit. It has taken her months to master this spell. But she did it. Pride swells in her heart. She did it._

"There now, that's better, isn't it?" Wynne asks, voice calm.

Jalyn nods, looking into her watery blue eyes. Blue? Have they always been blue? She frowns, thinking back. Why had she thought they were golden a moment ago?

Jowan's voice breaks through her meandering thoughts. "Oh thank the Maker! Is she going to be alright, Senior Enchanter?"

Wynne nods, standing up. "Of course. Now, if you don't mind, this old bird is getting tired. I think I'll turn in for the night." Jalyn follows her gaze and sees Melina, hovering, face worried. "Come, you can escourt me, child," Wynne says to the empath.

Melina frowns, but nods. Jalyn's face mirrors hers as she frowns, too, waiting for the curtsy that always comes with her shem friend. But it doesn't come.

There's something strange in the way Wynne walks, hips swaying gently as she leaves. Wynne had always walked with a sense of guided purpose and self-righteous dignity, or so Jalyn had felt. She shakes her head, choosing to be grateful the pain is gone, rather than suspicious.

"Tired, right," she mumbles. "I should sleep."

Jowan nods his head in agreement, tucking a strand of her hand behind her ear. "Sleep, love. I'll watch over you."

She curls into a little ball, ignoring her tent and bedroll. She wraps Jowan's cloak tight around her shoulders, though, the scent of him strong in the folds of the black fabric. She wonders, before fading into sleep, if tonight she'll finally dream again.

 

~*~*~

 

The fade shifts beneath her feet, grass into stone into dirt. Jalyn tilts her head back to look at the chaotic sky, the Black City looming in the distance. She reaches out a hand, fingers splayed against the blues and reds and browns.

The fade. It's been over a year since she walked here in her dreams. Over a year of silence and peaceful emptiness while she slept. And now she's returned.

She can hear the demons and spirits both whispering in her mind. Jalyn takes a hesitant step forward. _Why is she here?_

"Hurting. Pain, unbearable. You regret, yet it brought you peace." Jalyn spins around at the sound of a voice, searching for a source.

"What's this? Who are you? I won't fall for your tricks, demon," she calls out, fingers curling into fists.

A breeze blows her hair and it smells like honey. "No trick. Want to help. Fix the pain, take it away."

Jalyn scoffs. "So you're here to kill me then?"

The breeze falters. "Kill? No. I help."

"Life is always pain," Jalyn replies, pursing her lips. "To live is to hurt. Only when we die does the pain finally stop."

The breeze caresses her skin. "Do you... want to die?"

Jalyn frowns, uncertain. "No. I... . I want to live."

At the sound of her words, the dream breaks, shattering like glass.

 

~*~*~

 

The hour before the sun rises is the stillest part of the night. Jowan stands in the darkness, keeping vigil. The firelight casts playful shadows along his pale, grey skin. Jalyn's heartbeat quickens as she stares at him, motionless, awoken from her slumber by the sound of an owl in the night. She stands up, moving closer to him, her dream forgotten.

She reaches out across the expanse, fingertips brushing against his lips. His eyes widen, two grey orbs shining with what looks like hope. She tilts her head as an emotion flickers in her mind, sharp against the numb feeling of nothing. Sleep had brought her closer to tranquility, easing out the harsh emotions.

"I... have missed you," she whispers, and a single tear slides down her hollow cheeks. It's cold and wet against her skin. The sudden pain in her chest steals her breath.

Jowan's lips part as he falls to his knees, holding her hand in both of his. He doesn't say a word, his eyes closed as he kisses the palm of her hand. His grip is tight, and she wonders if this reaction means he missed her, too. Memories float across her mind, once again burning bright.

Their bodies entwined in hidden corners of Kinloch Hold, the way he would whisper words of love in her ear, despite the danger. His skin was always warm, even in the cold of winter. She'd breath in his scent, a sweet almost minty smell combined with the dusty aroma of old books.

Jalyn kneels down, pressing her nose against the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply. The minty smell is still there, but now it's combined with the smell of dirt and rain and being outdoors. His skin is soft against the tip of her nose.

"What're you doing, love?" he asks, clutching her hand still, like a lifeline he can't release.

She pulls back to rest on the heels of her feet. "Smelling you," she replies, voice still that hollow monotone that makes him flinch.

He offers her a smile, lips trembling. "I could probably do with a bath. I'm sorry."

A small smile curves her lips, and it takes her by surprise. "You smell like Jowan."

He quirks an eyebrow, lips turning down into a half-frown. "What? Well, uh... ."

"You smell like home."

His eyes shine with unshed tears as he raises one hand to rest against her cheek. He whispers her name and it sounds like a promise. "I love you," he says.

She nods, snuggling into his palm. "I know. I... can't return that love. Not yet."

He smiles, despite her words. "I'd wait forever for your love, Jalyn."

Tears roll down her cheeks in long, wet streaks as the sun crests against the horizon. For some reason, his words make her almost unbearably sad. "We should start packing up camp. The others will be awake soon," she mumbles, though a part of her wishes they could stay like this forever.

His lips are warm against the back of her hand. Jowan smiles, hair falling lazily in his eyes. "Right. Good point," he replies.

Jalyn pulls away, pushing the emotions threatening to spill out her eyes back down beneath a hard wall. She focuses her mind on the task at hand instead, carefully and quietly disassembling her tent and rolling up the blankets she never slept on. Her green eyes roam over the forms of her still sleeping companions before hovering over Maroth.

She never in all her wildest imaginings thought she'd see her cousin again. She remembers a small boy with a dirty face and loud laugh. She can still hear the sound of his voice as he teased her and Elva.

Elva. There's a name she hasn't thought of in years. Elva had been her friend, her confidant, up until she went to the Circle. The younger girl was clumsy and not very bright, but still, Jalyn had missed her friendship. She hasn't thought about the family she left behind in so long. Kinloch Hold had been her home, and her prison, just as the Alienage had been prior. She wonders, now, what kind of man her cousin has turned into. Apparently, a thief and a tease, she thinks with a smile.

The nug he bought her chirps at her feet, nibbling on her robes with a hungry expression on its face. It's strange, rodent-esque face stares up at her, eyes round and pleading.

She frowns, making shooing motions with her hands. "Go on, you, get. I've got nothing for you," she whispers.

The creature whines, a high pitched sound that pierces the air. His tiny, strange hand paws at her, claws sharp against her ankles. "Why in the Maker's name did he think I'd want a giant rodent?" Jalyn sighs, rummaging through her pack. "Here, go on then," she mumbles, handing the nug a piece of jerky. "Stupid thing."

He chirps happily as it munches on the piece of dried meat. A slow smile creeps along Jalyn's face as she idly scratches behind it's ears. "What'll I call you, anyway? I suppose you need a name, right?"

A soft gasp causes her to jerk her head up, meeting Maroth's horrified look. "Yer not feedin' him some of that jerky, are ya?"

Jalyn shrugs, nodding. "Yeah, little beasty was hungry. Why?" She leans forward again, scratching his head.

Maroth gulps, wetting his lips. "Poor thing. That's nug meat he's eatin'. Probably one of his own, too."

"You're... You're joking, right?" Jalyn stares down at the nug, eyes wide. Shit.

Zevran props himself up on one elbow, his other arm slung around Maroth's waist. He chuckles, golden eyes shining with laughter. "You have made him into a cannibal, no?"

"Poor thing," Maroth repeats.

_Maker, what has she done?_

The nug continues chewing, blissfully unaware of the fact that he's mowing down on dried pieces of his own brethren. "Why do we have nug jerky? Are they pets or food?" Jalyn asks, brows puckered in a tight frown.

Maroth yawns, stretching his long limbs toward the sky. "Eh. I don't know. I ain't a dwarf."

Zevran lets out a loud laugh, and the others stir in their bedrolls. "Not in any sense, to that I can attest," he says, a smirk playing on his lips.

Jalyn crinkles her nose. "Gross," she mutters, looking back at the nug. "Well, I guess it isn't hurting you none. Whatever."

Jowan sits down next to her, tent shoved haphazardly into his pack. "I think he's kind of cute," he says, grey eyes twinkling.

"You can have him," Jalyn offers.

He just shakes his head, his shoulder pressed closed to hers. "I wouldn't know what to do with a pet," he murmurs. "Have you thought of a name?"

She bites her lip, the image of a black haired mage girl flickering in her mind. "Remember that mage? Nalani?"

"You mean the one who failed her Harrowing?" Jowan asks, a soft tone to his voice. "Yeah, I remember. We trained together."

Jalyn sighs, staring down at the fat little nug. "She was a good person, and an elf from an alienage, like me. Just scared, I think. I was thinking of naming the nug after her."

Jowan chuckles, the ghost of a smile lighting across his face. "You want to name a nug Nalani Brechtel?"

"Why not? You got somethin' better?"

He shakes his head, still smiling.

Jalyn looks back at the nug. "Nalani it is, then. Maybe I'll just call you Lani though, right?"

 

~*~*~

 

The way back to Redcliffe castle is long, weeks of trekking through barren mountain paths with hungry bellies. Jalyn keeps to the back, Lani the nug wrapped in a pouch against her chest.

"Jalyn?" Melina's voice is soft, hesitant, as she slows her pace to match hers. "I, um, how are you doing?"

Jalyn shrugs, pulling her cloak tighter. "Cold. Tired. Same as everyone, shem." She doesn't admit that the sight of Melina makes her happy, that she's glad her closest friend is near. 

Melina's hand is warm as she reaches out, grabbing Jalyn's free hand in hers. "I mean, how are you  _feeling_ ," she emphasizes. 

"Oh. That. Today's better. I can feel things, bit it doesn't hurt. Much." Jalyn doesn't bother lying. She knows Melina would sense it, anyway. 

An arrow buzzes out of nowhere, piercing through Melina's chest. Her eyes widen as blood drips out her mouth. She falls to the ground, knees hitting the snow as their companions scream.

"It's an ambush," Daveth hollers, voice pinched.

"Melina!" Jalyn's voice breaks as she screams, but Maroth shoves her out of the way as battle rages around them.

Everything is blur of movement as her companions fight masked assassins. Blood stains the snow, turning the pure white to red like morbid paint. Screams echo and magic flashes around. Lightening crackles, pulsating against the air.

Jalyn struggles to bring forth her own mana, still blocked beneath the tranquility. A spark flares on her fingertips. She pushes more of her will into it, begging it to grow but it fizzles out in a puff of smoke.

She screams, voice broken, but tries again. She scrambles over to Melina on her hands and knees, ignoring the fighting. She tries to push her mana into the mage, her body frighteningly still. She's no spirit healer, but she knows the basics. She tries to heal the wound, breaking off the arrow. Melina's eyes flicker as she looks up at the sky.

"Jalyn," she whispers. "I... love you."

Jalyn's eyes grow wide as Melina's flutter close. "No, no, don't leave me," Jalyn cries, trying again and again to pull her mana forward to no avail. "Please, don't go!"

And when her fingers press against Melina's throat, she feels no pulse, no fluttering beat of life.

Jalyn bows her head as tears fall from her eyes. The pain of grief overwhelms her, sharp and bitter in her mouth. She clenches her fist until her knuckles grow white, holding her breath as her heart breaks. Melina's face is unmoving, eyelids unblinking, lips curved in the barest hint of a peaceful smile. Jalyn lets out her breath with a huff, and howls her rage to the sky, tears pouring fast down her hollowed cheeks.

Jowan's hand is on her shoulder, and she turns to him, burying her face in his robes as she pounds her fists against his chest. The unfairness of it all steals her breath again. She's returned from tranquility only to lose the person who matters most to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if you get the reference of Nalani Brechtel. ;)


	16. Chapter 16

A thick, swirling fog covers everything. The dark grey mass almost seems sentient as it hovers int the air. Her hand is outstretched, shivering and shaking, but her eyes can't see but a plur past her elbow. The air is bitter cold, an icy chill against the skin.

_Don't leave me!_

Voices echo all around, screaming, howling, pleading.

Melina raises her arm and can't see her hand in front of her face. "Where are you? I can't see you," she calls out, voice trembling. "I can't see anything."

A sharp pain shoots through her chest and she doubles over, struggling to breath. She gasps for breath, lungs burning in a sharp, steady pain. Fear and confusion claw at her mind. Her fingers grip her robes as she takes in a breath, slowly, one, two, one two. In and out, carefully counting each breath by ones and twos.

Melina stands up straight again, breathing calming as she tries to figure out where she is. What had she been doing?

Jalyn's face flashes in her mind, the elf's eyes wide with fear. "Am I... dead?" Melina asks the question out loud, even though she's alone. The sound of her own voice brings her comfort in this strange place.

A shimmering orb hovers in the distance, burning through the fog. Pulsating, glowing bright against the darkness.

_Please, don't leave me!_

She takes a step forward, hand outstretched. "Who are you?" she asks, curious. "What are you?"

It bounces in place, a soft tinkling sound coming from it. It sounds like bells, blowing in the wind. Melina pauses, the sound familiar. "Faith.... ," she whispers, voice trailing off at the end.

It glows brighter, breaking up the fog bit by bit. "I'm scared," she admits to the spirit.

"Not... your... time..."

She can feel herself, falling, air rushing from her lungs. Pain shoots through her body, sharp and piercing. The first thing she notices after the pain recedes a little is the noise. A woman's voice howls in grief, her regret and loss thick against Melina's mind. A man calls her name, urgent, pleading, hopeful. Her head rests in his lap, and she slowly opens her eyes.

Alistair's face swims into view, blurry around the edges. His eyes widen before his lips split into a wide grin. "Wynne was right, you made it," he whispers, breath coming out a thick puff of visible air.

"Alistair?" Melina frowns, struggling to remember what had happened.

_An arrow pierces her heart. The pain drops her to her knees, blood leaking from her mouth._

"I'm alive," she breathes, heart thumping wildly. "Is everyone else alright?"

Alistair makes a noise that sounds almost like laughter. "Yes, everyone is fine. It seems Loghain has heard word his last assassination attempt failed and has sent more after us."

Zevran chuckles, a low rumble that makes Melina turn her head toward him, leaning forward. "Ah, and so the Crows may have heard as well. I wonder if that makes me infamous yet?"

Maroth lets out a low snort. "'Course ya don't say famous. Assassins," he quips, lips quirking into a smile. 

Morrigan scoffs, arms folded against her chest. "He is a fool to oppose us so." 

Melina feels fingers gripping her leg tightly and shifts, trying to lift her head. Jalyn's eyes are wide with fear as she looks at Melina. "Shem," she whispers. 

Melina reaches out, hand extended. Jalyn mirrors the action, their fingers brushing briefly until Jalyn's face pinches together, tears falling from her eyes. She grabs Melina's hand, squeezing it until it hurts. "Don't do that again," the elf mutters.

She nods, lips curving in a small smile. "I'm sorry, my friend," Melina replies.

She tries to push herself into a standing position, wincing at the pain in her chest. Alistair helps, and she leans against his arm as exhaustion claws at her. Anger, thick and hot and heavy, hits her with a sudden force that steals her breath. Melina looks around until she finds the source: Cullen. He stares at her, eyes burning, lips curled into a snarl. 

Melina frowns as she tries to figure out what is causing his anger to flare so heatedly against her skin, like a blazing fire swarming across a dry forest. The air almost seems to crackle with it for a moment, before his shields come slamming into place, stealing her breath with the sudden loss. Cullen's armour clanks as he walks toward her. He doesn't meet her eyes, glaring briefly at Alistair before tossing a small flask toward her.

"It's enhanced with lyrium and elfroot. Drink it," he says, voice a gruff growl.

Melina's eyes widen as she stares at the small canteen of magically laced water. She turns her gaze to Cullen's face in bewilderment. Is he worried for her? "I- thank you, Ser Cullen," she replies.

Alistair's fingers grip her arm tighter. "With your temper, can we be sure you didn't poison it?" he asks with a sneering tone. 

"Alistair," Melina exclaims, surprise colouring her voice. "Ser Cullen is a fine templar. He would never harm a mage without good reason."

Jalyn's body goes perfectly still, expression turning blank. She gets to her feet, unblinking, and turns away. "I will set up camp. We should rest," she says, voice carefully bland.

Jowan shoots her a pointed glare, grabbing Jalyn's hand, and following close at her side. Melina sighs, leaning her head back and taking slow sips from the canteen.

"I wish I had never left Kinloch Hold," she whispers, the cold winter air making her shiver.

Alistair shifts, and a sudden heat floods Melina's head.  "We should light a fir-"

A burst of energy shoots from Izanami's fingertips, catching a small group of logs aflame. They burn purple, fading quickly to red and orange, the heavy flames licking away at the wood.

Leliana pulls the hood of her red cloak close around her face. "We should hurry. We wouldn't want to be caught so out in the open a second time, yes? Come, before the Arl worsens without a wretched demon keeping him alive. Maker, light out path and carry us swiftly without incident."

Cullen grunts, crossing his heart and turning away from them all, marching ahead in the snow. Tinges of regret reach her, brushing against her like poisonous strands of silk, soft but with an aftereffect of burning. Melina shakes her head, fingers wrapped around her pendant. "Maker, watch over us all," she whispers, the sound lost in the wind.

She watches for a moment to see how far he goes before he stops, standing and staring up at the sky, his short curls blown wild. She shifts as the others walk toward the chosen campsite, slightly hidden off the main path. As they sit around the campfire, Melina watches as Cullen stands alone. Alistair clears his throat, cheeks a bright red. She can't tell if it's from the hints of embarrassment she can feel, or merely the cold. 

"He'll freeze out there," she says, wringing her hands. "He should sit nearer the fire."

Alistair blinks, turning his head to stare out at Cullen. "Oh. Right. You and he... You were close, right?"

"Uh, perhaps? In the circle," she replies, frowning in concentration, "you don't usually make friends. And it's only other mages. The tranquil can't form friendships, and it's dangerous to tempt the templars from their duties. Ser Cullen was... kind to me. He taught me how to focus my mind through chess. He always felt so gentle in my head."

She lets herself smiling, remembering those simpler days. Or at least, they had seemed simpler to her. She had missed so much, trying to maintain a barrier between herself and the chaotic emotions swirling around the tower.

"I wish nothing had changed. I wonder if he'll ever forgive mages," she continues, a sigh punctuating the end of the sentence with a sharp puff of air.

"I don't know if it matters much, but I'm glad to have met you," Alistair mumbles, running his fingers through his strawberry blonde hair. "One good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together," he quips, wincing at the end. "Bad joke, right?"

Melina's smile widens, heart lifting momentarily. She shakes her head. "No, you were funny," she reassures him.

She grabs her cloak from around her shoulders. "I'll be right back. Unless you needed to talk?"

Alistair hesitates, glancing between her and Cullen for a moment before shaking his own head. "No, I, uh. Be careful," he mutters.

Melina takes a deep breath, holding in the chaotic swirling mess of emotions inside her. She takes careful steps toward Cullen, the bitter snow billowing her robes. Dizziness tugs her over, to sleep, to rest, but she pushes forward, each step slow and deliberate. She uses no magic, just a steady focus of mind.

"Ser Cullen, you'll catch cold if you stand here," she says, pushing her cloak toward him. "Please," she continues, fingers brushing against his cold, metal armour. 

He snorts, anger and incredulity lashing out sharp against her mind. "Leave me be, mage. You haunt my dreams enough when I am sleeping," he grumbles.

Her hand drops to her side, cloak falling from her fingertips. "I- " She stops, uncertainty making her hesitate. She can't find the words to heal him, and no spell or bit of magic can mend the rift between them.

But magic is all she knows. The swell of mana and how to manipulate it to ease tension or wash away a layer of sadness. Gently coaxing tiny wisps and spirits to her to mend bone and knit skin. But how do you heal without magic?

Melina bites her lip, slowly turning away. She stares at her footprints in the snow, tracks leading neatly toward the person who wanted to see her the least. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I will go. Even still, please don't stay out in the cold too long. With so many mages, and apostates, we need the only fully trained templar alert and alive."

A heavy weight settles on her shoulders, the woolen cloth of her cloak spreading a warmth through her body. "I have armour," Cullen grits out.

She smiles, pulling the hood up around her bushy curls. "Thank you," she replies, but the howling of the wind drowns it out.

 

~*~*~

 

 

Melina tosses and turns in her sleep, her blanket a tangled heap around her ankles. She's been laying there for hours, unable to sleep. Tonight isn't her night to stand watch. Because of her injury. She sits up with a sigh, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her hand searches for a tie in the dark, before wrapping her hair back with a thick band of cloth.

The moon is hidden behind grey clouds, but the fire burns bright against the darkness surrounding their campsite. Alistair sits by the fire, hands twirling a wilting rose.

"Alistair," she says, a smile tugging at her lips. "I'm glad I caught your watch."

He looks up, eyes widening and cheeks turning pink. "Oh, uh, you're here. I mean, of course you're here. But you're awake. I sound like an idiot, don't I?" He lets out a sound that's caught between a sigh and a groan. "Blighted idiot."

She giggles as she sits down next to him, surprised by how comfortable she feels when Alistair is near. "Never an idiot, my friend," she replies. "You've been carrying that rose for awhile?" she asks, taking in the dimmed and broken petals.

"Oh, uh, yeah." Alistair hesitates, cheeks darkening a shade. "Uh, I was planning on giving it to you," he admits.

"Me?" Her heartbeat quickens at the unexpected gesture. 

He nods, thrusting the rose toward her. A few petals fall off, hovering in the air before landing in the flames. The petals quickly turn to ash, embers floating in the wind.

Her fingers gently wrap around the stem, careful of the thorns. "I- Thank you," Melina whispers.

"It reminded me of you, is all. I found it back in Lothering. A bit of beauty in a miserable place. I wanted to rescue it before the blight took it." His voice is soft, and she leans forward to hear it all.

"That's kind of you, Alistair," she replies, cheeks beginning to match his in colour. "But I don't know if I should accept such a gift."

Alistair's face falls, sadness etched in every line. "Ah, right. I shouldn't, I mean-"

"It's just, I'm a mage. When the blight is over, I'll go back to the circle," she interrupts, clarifying her thought. 

He frowns, looking over at her. "But, you're not there now. You, uh, could join the wardens. You'd be free then."

"I'd still be an apostate," she replies. "And Kinloch Hold is my home."

"Your friend thought it was a prison," he says. "Yet, you still call it home? I don't understand."

Melina doesn't reply right away. She stares into the flames, unsure what to say. Her usual reply is on the tip of her tongue, waiting. The circle is where she belongs. Where all mages belong. 

Isn't it?

The close walls and vigilant templars had made her feel safe. Never had she felt the same oppressive feelings as Jalyn or Jowan or Anders.

Anders.

_Sweat trickles down Melina's forehead, stinging her eyes as she holds a candle. Jowan's fingers fumble with a makeshift lockpick. Anders frowns, stuck behind the bars._

_"They'll lock you up, too, if you're caught," Anders warns, face a bloody mess of cuts and bruises._

_Hot wax drips on Melina's fingers but she doesn't cry out. "Lady Isolde doesn't know we're down here, right?" she asks. "We can't leave you here," she adds._

_Anders lets out a soft laugh. "After what I've done? I poisoned a good man. I felt it, when I got near him. I knew he wasn't the evil man Loghain painted him to be. I still gave him the poison. Connor never would have sought out a demon if I hadn't done that."_

_Jowan frowns as he continues trying to pick the lock. "Blast and void this thing," he mumbles. His grey eyes dart upward for a second. "'What else were you going to do? Go against a teyrn? Loghain's to blame, if anyone is," he grumbles._

The sound of Alistair clearing his throat brings her back to the present. "I'm sorry, it seems I'm terrible company right now. Excuse me," she says, getting to her feet.

She rushes toward her tent, ignoring Alistair calling her name. She hides inside her tent, hands shaking and heart racing. It takes her a moment to realize the rose is no longer in her hands. Blood drips from her fingertips, tiny pinpricks dotted along the plump flesh.  The realization that she must have dropped it in the snow stings her heart, breath catching in her throat.

_I'm sorry..._

 

_~*~*~_

 

Redcliffe castle is tall and ominous, even in the daylight. The mages from Kinloch Hold haven't arrived yet. For the first time since she arrived Ostagar all those months ago, Melina has a whole day to herself. The village isn't as cold as the mountains, but she grabs her cloak anyway.

She curtsies to the Knights as she heads toward the drawbridge, the sky a bright and clear blue. "Melina, wait a moment?"

Melina turns, face heating up as she sees Alistair hurrying toward her. "Um, you'll find out soon enough, anyway, and I want to be the one to tell you," he continues, fingers rubbing at a spot behind his ear.

"Is something wrong? You seem perturbed?"

He smiles a little, eyes twinkling in the sunlight. "Perturbed's a good word, I guess. I'm... a bastard. I've told you that before, right? Well, my father was... the late King Maric. They never told me who my mother was. A maid, or something, I figure. Anyway, I've talked to Teagan and... Damn. How do I say this? Apparently, the Arl wanted to push me as Cailan's replacement before he fell ill. He still will, once we cure him."

Melina's eyes widen. "They want you to be king," she breathes. "Maker's breath."

"Right. Which means I'll have to act like a bloody noble, marriage and status and all. I thought I'd be free of my bloodline by joining the Wardens. Turns out, I was wrong. I'm sorry, though, for lying to you." Alistair turns away, and his regret slaps against her mind.

"Wait," she says, grabbing his sleeve. "Alistair..."

He turns back toward her, lips twisted in a wobbly smile. "You're probably angry, right? I-"

Melina leans forward, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek. "If I'm angry, it's for you, not against you. You're being forced to take on a role you don't want. If it's any consolation, I think you'll make a great king."

"I, uh, that is..." Alistair meets her eyes, lips hovering so close she can feel his breath on her cheeks. "Melina, I...." He lowers his head, and her eyelids flutter close. 

Her heart is racing beneath her breasts, palms sweaty as she grips her robes in her hands.

"Alistair, I need to see you for a moment," a voice calls out.

Melina's eyes fly open at the sudden sound and she stumbles back. Her cheeks flush red when she sees Teagan standing at the end of the hall, a cross expression on his face.

"I- I should go, to the village, I mean. I wanted to see if everyone was well and I, uh, I mean, you're going to be busy and, um...." Melina's voice trails off as she stands there, shifting like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "Right. Sorry."

She turns away, feet carrying her away as fast as she can without actually taking off in a run. When she reaches the village gates, she pauses, hand reaching up to brush against her lips. She shakes her head, trying to shake off the strange, lingering feelings of lust mingled in the pit of her stomach. She's a mage. A mage couldn't.... dally with a king. To influence nobility so easily... That's why mages are kept in the circle. To protect people from that danger.

 

~*~*~

 

Melina walks through the wooden paths that sit above the water, searching for the right house. She lets her curls fly free, blowing in the light breeze. The whole area smells of fish and Melina's glad the smell of corpses no longer permeates the air. 

The atmosphere of the villagers is pleasant, happier than it had been the first time they'd arrive. So much had happened between then and now, and Melina sends a prayer of thanks that they're all alive to see another day.

She can feel Cullen following her, hiding in the shadows behind her. She doesn't say anything, taking comfort in his looming presence. Melina waits until she arrives at Kaitlyn's door before she turns, a small smile on her face.

"Thank you, for escorting me, Cullen, but you needn't hide. I welcome being accompanied by a templar," she says.

Cullen steps from the shadows, frowning. "Bloody empaths," he grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.  

"I'm sorry," she replies, matching his frown. "I wish I could change that for you."

He grunts, face a dark mask. He folds his arms across his chest, the white fabric of his tunic pulling taut across his muscles. She sighs as she turns back to the door. 

"Instead of waiting out in the cold, come inside with me? It'll be a might bit warmer than standing outside by the door." Melina raps her knuckles on the hard wood. 

Kaitlyn answers the door, face lighting in a smale when she sees Melina standing there. "Mi'lady! How can I help you?" she asks, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Melina returns the smile, heart feeling lighter as she soaks in the happy emotions flowing from the young girl. "I just came to see how you and Bevin were doing," she replies. "You are well?"

Kaitlyn's grin widens as she waves Melina inside. "Oh, you needn't have bothered yourself, Mi'lady. But please, come inside and stay awhile. Bevin's out working on the docks right now."

Melina's smile slips as she enters, eyes adjusting to the dim candlelight of the small house. "Working? But he's so young," she murmurs, taking off her cloak as Cullen follows her inside.

Kaitlyn drops a curtsy, nodding toward Cullen. "Welcome, Ser," she says.

Cullen blushes, nodding his head. "Uh, than-thank you, young miss," he replies, standing half-hidden in the shadows.

Kaitlyn raises an eyebrow before motioning toward the small, well-worn table in the center of the room. "Please, have a seat. I was just about to have a cup of tea," she says, bustling over to the fire. "It's not anything fancy, but my mother- my mother loved it," she says, sorrow creeping into her voice.

She smiles through the pain, however, bringing a small metal teapot to the table along with three tiny cups. "I hope it will do."

Melina breathes deeply, enjoying the rich, floral scent. "I'm sure it's wonderful, Kaitlyn," she says.

The flavor is more subtle than the smell had led her to believe, a gentle blend of elfroot, lavender, and honey. "It tastes delicious," Melina adds, taking another sip.

She sits quietly as Kaitlyn prattles on, talking about the weather and Bevin's job at the docks. Kaitlyn continues on, barely taking a breath between each change of topic. Hours pass as the sun slips down toward the horizon, day fading into night. Kaitlyn glances out the window, brow furrowing as trickles of worry flow from her.

"Bevin should be home soon," Kaitlyn says, biting her lip. "Unless they have him working late again. He's so small, he can get places the other workers can't."

Melina finishes her tea, the warm liquid sliding down her throat. "I could stop by the docks on my way back to the castle, if it eases your worry?"

Kaitlyn waves her hands around, shaking her head back and forth. "Oh, no. If his boss hears someone's looking for him, he probably won't be too pleased. Besides, I'm sure he's being careful."

Cullen clears his throat from the corner, setting his still full teacup on the table. "Right, well, we shouldn't stay much lat-later, miss," he says, and Melina can't help but smile at the familiar sound of his stutter.

Melina stands, nodding her head in agreement. "Thank you for the tea, and the conversation, Kaitlyn," she adds.

As the door clicks behind them, and they head back toward the castle, a nagging thought enters Melina's mind. "Why did you come? I can feel concern, but I'm not sure at what. It's so mingled together with other emotions, that I can't tell what you're feeling."

Cullen stops, narrowing his gaze at her. "Concern? I'm only concerned about the havoc you might cause to this village if you fall to a demon's whim."

Melina bites her lip, frozen by the harshness of his words. "I know you're angry and-"

Cullen interrupts with a low growl, turning away from her. "They tortured me. For weeks, maybe months, they tortured me with their blood magic. Images of you danced in my mind, my body lit aflame with desire. Every time I look at you, I'm back there, trapped in that neverending nightmare."

His pain and agony strikes against her mind, stealing her breath with its intensity. "Cullen, I'm sor-"

Don't," he warns. "There may be a part of me that still cares for you. But there's the part that hates you, and it's stronger right now."

 

~*~*~

 

"Maker, though I am but one, I have called in your name and those who come to serve will know your glory."

Mana burns hot against her skin. Lyrium and magic fill the air until it crackles with power. Melina pleads with the spirits to help their spell, increase its energy until the room feels as if it might burst open. A heavy pressure fills the air, weighing down on their bodies, a stifling heat of magic and power.

"And though we are few against the wind, we are yours."

Melina raises her arms, voice lifted in song with the other mages. The Chant of Light flows from their throats, and their hearts, as they increase the power. She's the only spirit healer. Izanami feigned fatigue to hide Wynne's.... condition. Anders is gone.

She is alone, even when surrounded.

"Though I am flesh, Your Light is ever present, and those I have called, they remember."

Templars form a circle around the gathered mages, adding their strength to the mage's magic. A bead of sweat pours across her brow, dripping and stinging into her eyes.

"I shall sing with them the Chant, and all will know."

The room glows a bright purple, shimmering and hazy in the air. Melina draws a breath as the Arl opens his eyes. A servant's cry echoes in the sudden silence.

"Blessed Andraste herself has healed him," someone whispers.

Tears leak from the corners of the Arl's eyes. "Where... am I?" he rasps.

_We are Yours, and none shall stand before us._

"Be calm, brother. You have been deathly ill, for a very long time. I'm just grateful the Maker and his Bride has returned you to us," Teagan replies, relief etched on every line of his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concept of the dream/fade like sequence where Melina is saved by the Spirit of Faith was inspired by the in-game bit about Wynne and her Faith Spirit, when Petra talks about being certain Wynne was dead and then she came to and saved her.


	17. Chapter 17

A shiver runs down Maroth's spine, a cold chill settling into his bones as he walks through the gates of Denerim, hood pulled low. He tries to blend in with his group of companions, stomach twisting and turning in knots. Daveth raises an eyebrow at his hunched form.

"Hey, wolfy, you okay?" the warden asks. "Ain't sick, are ya?"

Maroth narrows his eyes as fear shoots through him. "Don't call me that 'ere," he hisses. "Friggin' shite."

Daveth nods slowly, scratching the side of his chin with one, long finger. "Ah, right. You're still a wanted man, ain't ya?

He snorts in reply, pulling the cloak tighter. "Blasted void," he grumbles.

Everywhere he looks, he's haunted by memories. Ghosts of Nessy and Lala whisper in his mind, dancing across the broken cobblestone streets. Merchants call out across the square, hocking everything from fresh fish to bundles of cloth to foreign perfumes. A few dwarven merchants even cry out about fine-made weapons, direct from Orzammar.

A little girl with blonde hair and pigtails speeds across the square, laughter loud and clear. She's human, but the sound of a child's laughter makes his heart clench, sharp and bitter behind his ribs.

Maroth frowns as he notices something different about the market district. It's just as crowded as it's ever been, and stinks just the same, too. But... "Where are the elves?" He whispers the question, heart thumping madly.

A passerby overhears and lets out a grunt. "Eh, they're all locked up in that alienage of theirs, ain't they? So they don't bring the plague to the rest of us  _normal_ folk."

Plague. The word repeats itself, over and over like a cruel joke in his brain. Plague. How many are dead this time? Shianni? Nelaros? Soris?

His father?

He bites his tongue to hold back the sharp reply to the shem's declaration, as well as the tears that threaten to spill.

Jalyn grips his arm, a small half-smile tugging her lips up. "Hey, we come from a tough line. Nothin' keeps us down for long, right?"

Maroth tries to match her smile but the fear inside him is too strong. Jalyn wasn't here, the last time there was a sickness in the alienage. She doesn't have memories of elves coughing up blood on street corners. She can't see the images of corpses filling the alleyways, the stink of death and disease filling the entire walled off area. She hasn't seen the horror of tiny, child-sized bodies stacked high while their families wail their grief to the skies. 

A lump forms in his throat and he struggles to breathe past it as they enter Arl Eamon's Denerim estate. He pulls his hood down, fists clenching as he leans against a wall. He watches through his hair as Alistair and Daveth walk up the stairs to speak with the Arl.

An elven servant approaches him, dress worn but clean. "Please, ser, this way," she says, bowing low.

Maroth freezes, blinking rapidly. "Ser? W'at's this?"

She bows lower, hair covering her face. "You're guests of the Arl, ser. I am to show you to your quarters while you stay here," she replies, voice soft.

He takes a deep breath, glancing over at Zevran. "Right. Hope that bed's big enough fer two," he quips, winking at the assassin. 

Zevran's smile helps ease the knot of worry that settled in the pit of his stomach. "Ah, I am glad to see returning here has not ruined your insatiable appetite, my friend," he purrs.

Maroth's grin is quick to follow, heart still beating wildly despite his words. "Right," he replies. "Who could resist ta infamous Zevran Arainai?"

"I often wonder the very same thing," Zevran replies, nodding sagely. "I wonder if we can test that question while we are here?"

 

~*~*~

 

Zevran's fingers are hot against his skin. Maroth lays face down on the soft bed as his lover deftly massages scented oils into his back. His eyes flutter close as Zevran kneads his sore, aching muscles.

The assassin had accused him of being too tense, too on edge, since their entrance to the city. Maroth knows he's right, even though he'll never admit it aloud. Being in Denerim is like a suckerpunch to his gut. He can hear his daughter's laughter echo in his ears, bright and full of life. His wife's smile is imprinted in his brain, still just as clear today as it had been the day she died. But he's beginning to forget little things, like the smell of her perfume or the sound of her singing. 

Guilt tears at him while Zevran continues his massage, the feel of his lover's hands doing nothing to ease that shame. It had been Maroth's fault Nessy had died. It had been his fault Vaughan had laid his filthy hands on her body before killing her. Every tear shed, every drop of blood and every bruise- the blame was his and his alone. And now? Now he can barely remember what it felt like to hold her, to kiss her, to love her. He was forgetting her, a little more with each passing day, and that sin weighs heaviest in his mind.

Maroth sighs against the pillow. His heart is a twisted mess of pain and regret, and still he wants to turn over and forget everything while being held in Zevran's arms. The assassin's hands still momentarily before continuing his ministrations across the lightly muscled plains of Maroth's back. 

"Something is on your mind, yes?" Zevran asks, his Antivan accent still thick but becoming more and more familiar with time.

Maroth grunts, leaning up on his elbows. "Eh. Never thought I'd be back 'ere, right? Weird, inn't it, bein' 'ere with you, and not... ." He lets the sentence trail off, unsure how to put his thoughts into words. 

Zevran clears his throat, body uncharacteristically still. "You are... ashamed, to be seen with a man?"

Maroth rolls over, leaning forward to cup Zevran's cheek. A small chuckle burns its way out of Maroth's throat, chaffing against the rawness of his guilt. "Never been ashamed of bein' with a man," he says. "It's just, sometimes, you look like her. Same hair, same eye colour. But then I look again an' it ain't her." And it hurts, he adds in his head, leaving so much left unspoken between them. His breath hitches in his throat, fingers curling into fists as he grips the cool silken sheets.

"Death happens," Zevran says, voice soft. "When people like us are involved, death happens more often. We all do our share of murdering around here, don't we? You can't harbour such guilt for every death that you cause."

He  turns his head away, forcing the tears to stay locked behind his green eyes. "Yer shite at comfortin', ya know that yeah?" 

“Kindness has never been my strong suit," Zevran replies, pressing a kiss on the inside of Maroth's hand. "Now, killing... killing and love-making. Killing and love-making and witty retorts. Those I am better at.”

Maroth lets out a low laugh, full of bitterness and tinged with anger. "W'at am I even goin' on to you about anyway? You've made it friggin' clear enough w'at I am to you."

"Maroth, I-"

Zevran's words are cut off by a sharp rap against the door. 

"Oiy, who is it?" Maroth calls out, frowning. "Bloody friggin' shite," he adds in a grumble.

The door swings open, hinges creaking. "You'd better be dressed," Daveth says, smirking in the doorway.

Maroth leans back, exposing a small trail of hair that runs down his stomach and leads to his nether regions. "W'at, you don't want ta see two sexy elves, in bed, naked, an' covered in oil?"

Zevran lets out a laugh as he begins to put away the oils..

"Somehow, I think I can resist your manliness," Daveth replies dryly. "Get dressed. I need a favour from ya."

Maroth scoffs, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. A pair of breeches lay on the floor, a crumpled heap, directly next to the bed. He ignores them and sashays over to his pack, his naked form gleaming in the candlelight from the oils. He can hear Daveth behind him groan as he bends over, roaming his pack from a clean pair of breeches.

"I think I just might hate you, wolfy," Daveth grumbles, shaking his head.

Maroth grins, glad for the lighthearted distraction. "W'at? Ya didn't enjoy the view of my fine arse?"

"No," Daveth replies, rolling his eyes. "And is that a wolf you have tattooed on your buttocks?" 

His smile slips into a frown as he eyes Zevran. "That... wasn't my fault. Ya can blame him fer the hooded wolf," he grumbles.

Daveth grins wide, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I like it."

"My arse? It's pretty, yeah?" Maroth pulls on the breeches slowly, a playful glint in his eye.

"I mean the tattoo."

"Of course ya do, poppet."

Daveth chuckles, shaking his head and leaning against the wall. "Alright, wolfy. I've got to go rescue Queen Anora, apparently. In the meantime, I want you search the underbelly of Denerim and see if you can find anything useful for us."

Maroth freezes, tunic halfway pulled over his head. He hesitates a moment before pulling it the rest of the way on. "Yer jokin', right?"

Daveth shakes his head firmly. "Nope. Sorry, Maroth. I know yer a wanted elf in these parts, but if we can make Alistair king, and get the support we need from the Landsmeet, then we can finally finish this bloody blight. I can sense the archdemon. It's a blight, whatever Loghain believes. We need all the help we can get, right?"

Maroth lets out a sigh. "Right."

 

~*~*~

 

The bar is polished clean, shiny enough for Maroth to see a blurred reflection of his cloaked form. The shem bartender, David, slides a glass of rich, honey-coloured liqueur his way. The glass is smooth as he catches it in his hand. Maroth closes his eyes as slams the sweet whiskey back, the warmth spreading through his body.

He looks up at the bar keep, taking in his slight receding hairline. He's changed since Maroth had been here last. Not that he ever frequented the noble's tavern overmuch. Elves weren't particularly welcomed here. "Got any work?" he asks, keeping his face covered.

David's eyes dart around the immaculate bar before he nods, curtly. "Yeah," he mumbles, shoving a few papers toward him.

Maroth grins as he reads the messy scribbles on the tattered parchment, grease stains lining the edges.

 _"_ _I'm sick of journeymen changing things just to make their name. And I'm tired of trying to make friends. Business is business, not who likes who. It's time to set an example._

_Young "K" is becoming too much of a headache. I want him dead. No whispers, no setting plots in motion. Everyone knows he's after my territory. No point in hiding the act now. In fact, I'll spread the word and his lieutenants will find you, if you accept._

_-D"_

D? Maroth chuckles to himself. Must be Dagon. Ran a harsh group of thugs, but a good one. Solid work and they always played fair and honest. Dagon was quick to temper, though, and cruel in his punishments. But he had more wealth amassed to him than most of the shittin' Bans. Not many were bold enough to move against him.

The second note is neatly written on old parchment paper. The letters are faded around the edges and Maroth has to squint in the dim candlelight to read it.

_"'D' won't make room. He sees everything as an attack. It's kind of sad, but who am I to disappoint? He's making moves against me, and I need to get there first. My way. I've made a lot of **friends** , something "D" has never found valuable, and they are not your typical suspects. A simple nod from a stranger and they will add their voices to various and sundry accusations. I need someone who can move freely to do this and confirm the action with our Denerim guard contact. I will be most grateful and generous, but you should know that it is certain to make you an enemy of 'D.'_

_-K"_

Maroth strokes his chin as he he tries to remember anyone with the initial K. Strange, he can't remember any leaders by that name. They're just been Dagon, Maia, Jenny, and Riggs when Maroth was last here. Wait... Riggs. His right hand man had called himself Kit, right? 

Maroth shrugs, grabbing the next letter. It's written in bold red ink, the letter neat but squished together.

_"It's always useful to have a big name in your pocket, and there's nothing better than snagging them with their knickers down. If, in travels wide, someone were to come across notes between illicit lovers, I have certain specialists who can make the most of the texts._

_-R"_

The familiar writing is like a knife to his heart. His fingers trace the lettering, stumbling over the sloppy R signature at the bottom.

R. His fingers curl into a fist. He knows where to find her. He looks up at the barkeep, pushing the top two letters back toward him. He doesn't have time for assassinations and the politics of the underbelly today. "Tell K that The Dark Wolf wants ta meet tomorrow night," he whispers, scribbling a quick note on a scrap of paper. "Thanks."  

He leaves the stuffy Gnawed Noble tavern, old memories clinging to him like cobwebs he can't shake. When he steps into the sunlight, he heads straight for his companions, the ones Daveth had "lent" to him. Morrigan's cross expression as she glares at every passerby makes him grin a little, despite the heaviness in his heart.

Still, his face is a dark mask as he joins them and Zevran puts a hand on his lower back. Maroth spins around, capturing his lips in a sudden kiss. He tries to press deeper, to slip his tongue past his lover's lips and drown out the voices of the dead echoing in his mind.

But Zevran pulls back, one hand gently stroking Maroth's cheek. "We have work to do, yes? Come. There will be time for more, later," he says, keeping his golden-hued eyes trained on a spot just behind Maroth's shoulder.

Morrigan clears her throat, folding her arms neatly across her breasts. "So, I can presume you found something in there or did we waste time will you alleviated your lust again?"

Maroth grunts, avoiding her gaze. His heart is thundering with anger and nerves beneath his chest. The smiles on stranger's faces pisses him off, their happiness feeling like an insult to all the pain that lies hidden in the crummy back alleys and dirty side street slums. The plague that holds the alienage hostage is merely a few feet away, behind a locked gate and slowly collapsing bridge. It isn't fair, that these shems sit in their lofty homes while the elves die of sickness that no one even tries to cure.

"It feels so strange to be here again," Jalyn whispers, glancing over at a small house nearby. "This is where that Brother lived."

Maroth stares at her a moment, her accent still strange to him. Jalyn hadn't been born in the alienage like the rest of them. Her ma had been one of them Dalish types, before she died of illness on a farm. Her da died a year later of exhaustion and heartbreak. That's when she had come to the alienage, full of spite and anger even at five-years-old and a strange, almost lilting accent. The alienage had worn on her though, and so had Denerim's rough way of speaking. Then the templars came, and now her speech sounds like a street kid that's lived among the nobles too long. Must be that fancy circle education, he figures, shaking his head. He hasn't seen his cousin since he was six-years-old. She had been eight, or close to it, when she left. Maroth lets out a slow breath that fades into a sigh.

"Right. Stay alert. Come on, then," he replies, leading them toward the Wonders of Thedas. The shop reeks of incense and herbs. Maroth struggles not to gag as he searches the shelves, eyes lighting upon a simple, plain wooden box. The wood is still a bit rough in his hands, but it'll do. There's no time to smooth it down.

He takes it to the table, ignoring the curious stares of his companions. A few brushes sit on the table and the tranquil proprietor brings him some paint. He purses his lips as he begins painting, a simple design of swirling red scrolls and a few fallen flower petals.

"May I ask what you are doing with that box?" Morrigan asks, lip curled as she watches.

Jalyn snorts as she browses the books. "Obviously, he is painting it."

Maroth frowns as he puts the finishing touches across the wood. "Don't suppose you witches know a paint-dry-faster spell, yeah?"

Morrigan raises an eyebrow and waves her hand over the small painted box. "There. Now tell me, elf, what is your purpose here?" she replies, making it more a demand than a question.

He debates ignoring her, but sighs instead, realizing it isn't fair to take his frustrations out on her. "They ever tell ya of the Friends of Red Jenny in ta wilds, poppet?"

Her haughty expression gives him his answer and he grins. "They're a gang of do gooders fer us down an' out types. Jenny is ta leader. Likes the colour red, fer some reason. I... used to work fer 'em, sometimes."

"I do not understand-" Morrigan begins, but he cuts her off with a wave of his hand.

"Right, ya don't need ta. Just follow my lead fer now, yeah," he replies.

He heads straight for a plain, unmarked door at the end of the alley. He slips the painted box through the slot and leans against the wall, waiting. He grins when the door open and a blonde elf steps out, her hair chopped unevenly and short. 

"W'at the frig is this? Thought you left, right? Killed bitchballs 'nd his family, didn't ya? W'at're ya doin' back?" she asks, her grey eyes flashing as she twirls an arrow between her fingers.

Maroth forces a grin, despite the churning mass of nausea burning in the pit of his stomach. "'Ello, Sera," he replies. "I ain't 'ere fer me, this time. You heard of the Grey Wardens, yeah?"

Sera snorts, a rude sound through her nose. "Right. Yer one of thems now? Friggin' pigshite. Come on," she says, waving them in.

The building is larger than it looks on the outside, with a small spiral staircase that leads to a lower level.  It's dark going down, and the single, tapered candle leaves a tiny glow in the growing darkness.  It casts a tiny halo on the crown of Sera's head. He chuckles at the irony of the image.

"I 'ear boots," a soft voice whispers from below.

A shuffling sound followed by a thunk echoes upward at Maroth as they descend further down the stairs. "Can't be Sera, Sera don't make noise like the rest of us." 

Maroth grins, recognizing the voice of his half-shem cousin. "Oiy, Slim Couldry. W'at're you doin' down in the dark with ta rats?"

A hushed silence hovers in the air before Slim replies. "Oiy, Tabris? Never thought I'd hear yer voice, again," he says, a rueful tone colouring his voice. "Thought ya died in the massacre."

Maroth flinches at the word 'massacre'. "No, I didn't die," he says, voice soft. He follows Sera to the landing before entering a small, tunneled off room filled with crates and sacks. A few guards stand around, but Maroth doesn't doubt there aren't more hiding in the shadows. Not many are allowed entrance in the almost mythical hideout of the Friends. It occurs to him, suddenly, that he's brought an assassin straight to their lair. He glances at Zevran, a small thread of doubt slithering in his mind as he watches him.

He forces his attention back to Slim, expression carefully blank. "Do ya know how many survived?"

Slim frowns, his pudgy cheeks a dark red. "Maybe a little o'er half of them. None of the orphans made it. Valendrian was taken by the guards. Then the plague started an' I haven't seen inside the walls since."

His heart falls like a heavy stone to the pit of his stomach, a hard lump of regret and guilt tearing at him from the inside. None of the orphans... There hadn't been many kids over the age of ten inside that run down shack of an orphanage. They were murdered... And it was his fault. The guards may have held the swords, but he had caused the slaughter. And Valendrian? He was their leader.... Who led his people now?

"W'at about my family?" he asks, swallowing past the pain in his chest.

Slim's frown turns to an expression of pity. "As far as Shianni's concerned, ya got no family there, Tabris. She said if ya weren't actually dead, then ya were dead ta her. But they're alive, if that's w'at ya mean. Shianni, her husband, an' yer da." 

Maroth breathes a small sigh of relief. It's okay if they hate him, so long as they're alive. He deserves to be hated. He welcomes their scorn and anger, embraces it like a warm cloak in winter because he knows he's earned nothing less. "W'at of Soris?"

"I'm 'ere, cousin," a voice says from the shadows. Soris steps out, face an angry mask. "I wasn't in the alienage when they locked ta gates. Jenny took me in. Valora's still in there, though. Rotten shem bastards."

Maroth's eyes widen as he stares at Soris, pulse racing. "Soris," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "Yer alive..." 

Soris' eyes are narrowed as he marches over to him, standing eye to eye. "Yer goin' to help us, right, cousin?" His voice is firm, stronger than Maroth remembers it being. "To save Valora an' the others?"

He nods in response, even though he has no idea how he can help. That's not why he came back, but it should have been. He owes them that much, at least. A ghost of a smile haunts Soris' face as he embraces Maroth.

"Then welcome back to Denerim, cousin."

"Frig, ya wanted to see Jenny, yeah? C'mon then," Sera grumbles. Wax drips onto her fingers, and a tight frown colours her face. 

Jalyn steps forward, eying Soris. "Soris... I remember you," she says, her green eyes flashing. "You were still a tiny thing when I left."

Soris raises an eyebrow at her. "Who the frig are you?" he asks, peering at her closer. "Oiy, wait, Jalyn?" He rushes forward, pulling her into a tight hug. "You always gave me yer share of the sweets, right?"

Jalyn hesitates before returning the hug, tears pricking at her eyes. "Yeah, Soris, it's me," she whispers into his short, reddish brown hair.

Sera clears her throat. "W'at a touching reunion," she mutters. "Boooooring," she continues, stretching the word out in an exaggerated tone. 

"Frigg off, Sera," Soris grumbles, pulling away. 

The gruff tone his cousin uses surprises him, and he wonders what change happened to make Soris sound so hard. He'd always been the soft-spoken one, the one who hesitated and kept quiet. It breaks his heart to see Soris so hardened. 

Maroth watches Sera as she continues to lead them down twisting mazes of crumbling tunnels and small rooms. By the time they reach Jenny, he's certain he'd never find his way back out without help. Which he is sure was Jenny's intention when she built the place.

Jenny sits behind a simple desk, her gear covered in bits of red cloth. Her hair is the colour of flames and her green eyes are filled with something resembling pity. Her rounded, human ears are lined with piercings, glittering gems and bits of silver. "Well, well, if ain't the Dark Wolf, slunk back with his tail between his legs. W'at're ya doin' back?"

Maroth shrugs, hiding his anger. It had been a mission of Jenny's that had brought him to Vaughan's attention. Her goading, her promises and lies. "W'at, I can't come ta see an old friend?"

Jenny snorts, shaking her head. "Friend? Never knew ya thought so fondly of me, Wolf," she replies, practically purring. "How lucky am I."

"Friggin' load of shite, innit it? Wants somethin', he does, 'course. Always somethin' wit' 'im," Sera grumbles, tossing her arrow at the far wall. It hits the same, small notch it always hits, though somehow the girl never seems to look before throwing.

A smirk twists his lips as he claps, glancing between the arrow and Sera. "Impressive aim, as ev'r, you got. Right, so no warm and fuzzies then? Good," he replies, holding back a laugh.

Zevran raises an eyebrow, tracing a finger along his facial tattoos. " We have heard of these "Friends" even in Antiva, though I never expected to meet  _the_ Jenny _._ "

Jenny leans forward, a sudden frown marring her face. "W'at's this? A Crow in my hidin' place? Well, well, the Maker must have Himself a sense of humour. How many contracts does the Frontinus family have against me, fer killin' their shit of a son?"

"Oh quite a few I imagine, but House Arainai has accepted none. And, just to clear things up, I am a former Crow, at the mercy of my companions here," he replies, but his eyes hold a hungry glint to them.

"Wonderful," Jenny replies dryly. She turns back to Maroth. "W'at the frig do you want? Spit it out, come on now."

Maroth grins, wheels in his head spinning. "Tell me, Jenny, w'at 'ave you heard of the Grey Wardens?"

She shrugs, a bored expression on her face. "Lots," she replies. "Heroes turned King slayers, the latest gossip says."

Maroth clicks his tongue in a chiding way. "And 'ere I thought yer people had the best information," he taunts. "Is that really the best they can get?"

Her lips stretch into a grin that matches his own, her perfectly crooked teeth gleaming in the half darkness. "Obvious play," Jenny replies. "Obvious, but effective. Fine. A little birdie tells me the Wardens ain't as bad as that bellend, Loghain, says."

"Smart bird ya got," Maroth quips. "Give it an extra cracker."

Her chuckle is low and soft, a subtle mix of genuine amusement and mild annoyance. "Still got an awfully smart mouth fer a wolf," she says, punctuating her sentence with a sigh. "I heard the Wardens have allies, but I'm surprised to see _you_ 'ere," she admits.

Images of broodmothers dance in his mind, their morbid mounds of flesh still haunting his waking moments. "The blight is real, Jenny," he says, voice turning serious. "We need the Wardens. Loghain's a friggin' nutter."

Jenny raises an eyebrow, running the feathered end of her quill against her lower lip. "And one of yer warden friends bein' the bastard son of Maric is jus' a coincidence, yeah?"

Maroth scoffs. "Eh, yer not goin' ta believe w'atever I have ta say on that, right?"

Jenny gets to her feet, each step slow and careful. Her movements are slick, cat-like, as she makes her way across the room. She's barely a breath away when she stops, eyelids dropping seductively. She runs a single finger across the open path of his shirt. "Well, I might be willin' ta hear ya, fer old time's sake," she purrs as Sera glares in the background.

His cheeks flush red as his mind flashes back to that night. They'd both been drunk, and desperate. 

_Jenny's make-up is smeared down her cheeks as she chugs another pint of ale. Slowly, her fingers pull the lacings on her tunic. She tugs the fabric off her shoulders and her breasts spill free. Her nipples are as rosy red as her cheeks as she pulls Maroth's head down to meet her lips in a heated kiss._

_Nesiara's angry face enters his mind, their most recent fight over money still fresh. Laylah's screaming cries and Nessy's anger had driven him from his home, his only solace so far tonight found at the bottom of a bottle of rum._

_Jenny had joined him soon after. eyes rimmed with red from obvious crying, and breath reeking of ale. They had talked, which turned into lewd dancing, which had turned into kissing, half naked, in her room at the back alley tavern._

_He pulls away, despite his cock being hard and ready. "You had another fight with Sera, yeah? Heard you two fought a lot, lately," he says._

_Jenny nips, hard, at his chest; leaving indented teeth marks on his skin. "Shut the frig up an' kiss me," she demands. "If I wanted talkin', I wouldn't go to **you.** "_

_Maroth shoves her against the wall with a grin. Her eyelids flutter shut as a lazy smile spreads across her face. "Yes," she says with a hiss. "Give me anger."_

_His fingers press softly against her throat as he kisses her again, their tongues dancing in a mixture of alcohol and hatred._

Maroth takes a step back, shame from that memory making him feel sick. "Right, all I need from ya is information," he grumbles.

She throws her head back and laughs, a loud, ringing song that comes from deep in her belly.

"Right smart of ya, arsebucket," Sera grumbles. She marches over to him and slams a small stack of papers against his chest. "Take this and frig off. Figured you'd come here, eventually. Watch more than you think, I do. Go before I fill you with arrows, right?"

Maroth glances down at the scribbled writing and grins. "Perfect." He nods to Sera. "Right. Thanks."

Morrigan scoffs, eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Yes, I am ever so pleased you have found a way to put that drooling simpleton on the throne. Now may we leave these dreadful tunnels?" she asks, peering down her nose at him. 

Sera grins, pushing past him. "Yeah, leavin's a good thing fer you to do. Right, 'ere ya go then."

The sunlight hits him dead in the eye when they reach the surface again, blinding him as he walks down the planked wooden walk-way. Zevran looks him over before they begin walking down the back alleys. "So, what did this Sera give you, my friend?" he asks.

Maroth's grin is tight, forced, and doesn't reach his eyes. "A lot. Favours fer people who need it. Jenny won't help nobles though, so that's w'at she gave me, 'course. Rotten blighted bitch." He spits on the ground, glaring into the distance. "First one says some kid named Oswyn is in the new Arl of Denerim's estate. His da's some noble Lord or somethin;. Like the friggin' void I'll go back there. Other one says I need to meet with Captain Chase, fer some ransom mission. Right. We'll do that, then."

They turn down a corner and a shadow on his left seems to move. Maroth spins around, suddenly on edge. "Who's there, yeah? W'at do you want?"

"And so here is the mighty Dark Wolf at long last. The Crows send their greetings, once again." A human with dark hair steps out of hidden corner at the stop of crumbling staircase. He holds a dagger in his hand, the tip coated in a poison that stains the metal green. "Too bad your Warden friends aren't with you, but alas, we will have to find them later."

Zevran steps forward, his face crestfallen as he stares up the the assassin. "So they sent you, Taliesen? Or did you volunteer for the job?" Sadness seeps from his tone, and Maroth moves to grab his wrist, rubbing his thumb over the man's pulse.

His own heart is in his throat, and Maroth hates himself for wondering is this is a set up, if Zevran knew this would happen. "Zev...?"

The man, Taliesen, grins, taking a single step forward. "I volunteered, of course. When I heard... I simply had to see it for myself. The great Zevran gone rogue?"

Zevran chuckles, but the sound isn't happy or mischievous, like Maroth has grown used to hearing. "Is that so? Well, here I am, in the flesh." His brows are furrowed, a pained expression in his eyes.

Taliesen's smile slips, and he seems to struggle with his expression before reaching a hand toward Zevran. "You can return, Zevran," he almost pleads. "I know why you did this. It's not too late," he continues, a strange, almost vulnerable look in his eyes. "Come back, and we'll make up some story. Anyone can make a mistake."

"An' of course, I'd be dead," Maroth mutters, narrowing his eyes. "An probably the Wardens next, yeah?"

Zevran turns to him, the planes of his face hardening. "And I'm not about to let that happen," he says, and the intensity in his voice takes Maroth by surprise.

"What? You've gone soft," Taliesen accuses.

"I'm sorry, my old friend. The answer is no, I am not coming back... and you should have stayed in Antiva." His tone is morose, but certain as he reaches for his daggers.

"The Crows will make you pray for death, you fool," Taliesen hisses through clenched teeth. "I will give you a clean death before then. It is the least I can do, my friend." He raises one arm, a cold glint in his eyes. "Attack," he cries out and every shadow seems to come to life, leaping from behind trees and under overturned wagons. 

Arrows fly from high above, however, and several of the shadowed assassins drop to the ground, dead. Maroth looks over and spots Sera and Soris, alongside a few human archers, shooting arrows from rooftops. He grins his thanks before rushing into battle, following close behind Zevran's form as he moves toward Taliesen.

The ensuing battle is hard, but over quick, a blurred movement of daggers and arrows. When it's done, and Zevran limps over to him, Maroth's words are trapped in his throat. Instead, he leans down and kisses him, face still covered in blood. "Thanks," Maroth mumbles, before kissing him again.

Zevran's fingers are tangled in his hair, gripping the back of his head and angling it down. Morrigan and Jalyn both make a similar disgusted noise.

"Right, get a tavern for that," Jalyn mutters, elbowing her cousin.

"Such a disgusting display of obvious affection," Morrigan sneers, turning into a crow and flying above them. She zips ahead, scouting the alleys for more hidden ambushes. 

Zevran chuckles, winking. "A tavern sounds like a fine idea, once we meet your Captain Chase," he says, a small smile making his lips twitch.

Maroth's heart is pounding as he nods. "Right. Yeah. Uh, let's go then," he says, feeling suddenly awkward. He hasn't felt  _awkward_ since he was fourteen and kissing his first girlfriend behind the Chantry stables.

 

~*~*~ 

 

Maroth's face is lit with a wide smile when they finally return to Eamon's Denerim estate. The meeting with Captain Chase had gone well, or rather the assassination of Captain Chase. It had been a mission for the Crows, originally, but with Maroth's help, they now had the support of a mysterious nobleman for the Landsmeet. Daveth can rescue the Oswyn kid, he figures.

His body is eager to finally spend a moment alone with Zevran, to talk and touch and hold. Being back in Denerim is still hard, but somehow seems less threatening knowing that Zevran truly has his back. Even if Daveth refuses his request to go to the alienage, at least he'll have Zevran at his side.

His smile fades as he sees Daveth standing at the gate, Alistair and Cullen both beside him and dressed in full armour with matching scowls.  

"W'at izzit, warden?" Maroth asks, taking in the dark cloud of anger rolling off the three. 

Daveth's eyes narrow. "Rescued the blasted Queen, lost Melina," Daveth replies, fingernails digging into his fists. "You can fill me on your mission as we walk, wolfy. We're heading to Fort Draken, where they have her held."

"We?"

Daveth gives a curt nod of his head. "We," he repeats. "You three can stay behind." He gestures toward Zevran, Morrigan, and Jalyn, brows furrowed. "We're going to sneak past the guards, hopefully."

A feeling of dread overwhelms Maroth as he kisses Zevran goodbye. The moment they seem to catch a break, something always goes wrong.

 

~*~*~

 

The rope around Maroth's wrists feels strange as he stares up at the Fort Drakon guards with a defiant expression. Wind blows in through cracks in the walls, making his cape billow around him.

"We've got prisoners for the Captain," Cullen says, his voice low and gruff.

Alistair nods in agreement. "Right. Uh, this is Daveth, the Grey Warden survivor and King Cailan's killer." He tugs on the rope leading to Daveth's wrists, and Maroth inwardly groans at the man's lack of ability to lie even a little.

Cullen clenches his jaw but also nods. "And this is The Dark Wolf, known thief and noble killer." He glares at Maroth, lip curling in a sneer. "Filthy knife-ear," he spits, and Maroth is momentarily taken aback by the hostility in his voice.

The two guards exchange a glance before speaking. "Right, I'll get the Captain, then," one of them says, grunting at the end.

While they wait, Cullen looks at Maroth and rubs the back of his neck. "Sorry, Tabris," he mutters. "You're, uh, a good man."

Maroth frowns in confusion before he realizes the templar is apologizing for the slur against his elf-yness. "Right. Yeah, knew ya didn't mean it." He pauses for a moment. "Probably."

Cullen's expression doesn't change but he claps Maroth on the shoulder. Whatever he's about to say is interrupted by the Captain, his face a dark scowl. An easy lie, given to the two warriors in advance, gets them past him easily enough; though Maroth's nerves are on edge anyway.

The large building crawls down and down, and screams echo up from the bowels of the fort. They make it past most of the guards by staying inconspicuous, and not looking too terribly much like intruders. A small door leads to a torture room, corpses piled in corners and in wagons, ready for the burning pit. A permanent stench of death and blood lingers in the air.

Melina lays bound on a rack, arms and legs pulled tight. "Your name is etched into my every step. I will not forsake You, even if I forget myself." Her voice wavers from pain, but the truth in her words ring in the air. "I will not break. I will not break." She repeats the words, over and over, a promise wrapped in a prayer.

The torturer grins and Maroth can feel his blood boil in anger. "We'll cut off her hands, so she can't do magic," he says, grabbing a wickedly curved blade.

"I will not break, I will not break," she continues to chant, sweat rolling down her face.

A thunderous bellow startles Maroth as he turns to see Cullen charging toward the torturer. Cullen's face is twisted in a mask of pure rage as he slams into him, knocking him to the ground. The sound of Cullen bringing the hilt of his sword down onto of the pinned man's throat, over and over, makes Maroth's stomach churn. Even after the torturer is long dead, Cullen continues to beat him, voice raised as he yells incoherently. 

Maroth goes over to him and lays a hand on his shoulder, and the templar stills. His breath comes in heavy pants as Alistair unties Melina's wrists and ankles. The torturer is nothing but a smear on the ground now, bits of bone and flesh mangled together in a mostly unrecognizable lump. The other two men stand against the wall, hands raised and fear in their eyes as Daveth holds a dagger at the ready.

Alistair holds Melina close in his arms, petting her hair and whispering soothing words in her ear. Cullen stares at them, expression haunted. Blood trails from his upper lip. 

Maroth hands him a bit of cloth. "That'll leave a scar, it will," he mutters.

More blood drips from Cullen's armour, splattering against the ground. Today, everywhere Maroth loos, there is red.

Melina pulls away from Alistair's embrace and looks at Cullen as he trembles. Her brows are pinched together, a conflicted expression colouring her face. Daveth ties up the two extra men with a sigh. 

"Come on. Let's get out of here before we're really noticed," the warden grumbles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious on Red Jenny and Sera, I wrote this thing called A Thief Sleeps in my Bed. It starts before the Blight but ends after the Blight. It's just a series of snippets though, so not long: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3672099/chapters/8118381
> 
> Jenny and Sera also appear in Maroth's backstory, A Smuggler's Chant
> 
> And this is a recent one-shot I did of Aneirin and Maroth, which takes place a little bit before this whole thing started: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8544193
> 
> Feedback on anything is welcome!


	18. Chapter 18

Jalyn hesitates outside the heavy wooden door. Her hand raises, poised to knock, only to drop back down to her side. The seconds pass by, shifting into minutes, until Jalyn finally steels herself, heart skipping a beat. She forces her knuckles to knock sharp against the oaken door.

"Come in," Melina's small, gentle voice calls out.

Jalyn's fingers freeze over the brass knob for a moment, heart trapped in her throat. She turns the doorknob, her emotions a swirling mess layered under a thick fog in her brain.

Melina lays in a large bed, a thick blue blanket folded neatly in her lap. Her skin is pale, even paler than normal, the colour gone from her plump cheeks. Dark rings line her eyes, which are red rimmed and tired.

"Shem," Jalyn whispers.

Always the healer, Melina forces a smile, a tender curling of her lips that make her eyes crinkle. "How are you?" she asks, voice soft, lilting, and sounding like home.

Jalyn scoffs at the question. "Stupid thing to ask," she mutters. She rests a bony hand against Melina's forehead. "Right, that's a fever," she continues. "'Course it is. You always get these fevers when you use up your mana too quickly. Foolish."

Melina's smile widens, making her eyes seem to glow. "I've missed you," she says, ignoring Jalyn's statements and taking her hand.

Jalyn opens her mouth to reply, the words 'me too' on the tip of her tongue before reality sets in. She hasn't missed her. She hadn't felt anything at all over the past year and a half. 

The silence stretches between them, Melina's eyes fluttering shut. Jalyn brushes a strand of sweat-soaked curls from the shem's cheek, the hard angles of her own face softening as she stands there, watching. After awhile, she pulls a wingback chair next to the large canopy bed. Weariness tears at her as she closes her eyes, fingers curled around Melina's hand.

As the Fade builds around her, drawing her in with a seductive pull of smoke and illusion. Trees seem to line the distance, a fake sun setting over the horizon. She believes none of it, walking through the ankle length grass with careful, measured steps. She's not sure why she's here, but her suspicion pricks at her mind, heavy and strong.

Melina lays in the grass, humming a gentle tune that reminds Jalyn of a Chantry song. Or at least, it's a pretty convincing image of her friend. Jalyn pauses for a moment before continuing, her stride even.

She only stops walking when a small table blocks her path. It's covered with a red checkerboard cloth and hard cheeses. But what catches Jalyn's attention is the woman at the table. Her hair is long, pitch black, and sits twisted in a knot at the nape of her neck. Her gown drapes across her slender frame, the red velvet a violent stain against the peaceful setting sun that's frozen just at the horizon.

Jalyn stands motionless, the brand on her head burning lightly. She swallows past the fear, trying to find her voice, when a sharp pain slices through her skull. It steals her vision and her breath and memories of this same thing happening before flood her mind. 

A name whispers across her mind, a breath of wind in her ears.  _Izanami._

"What... do... you.. want, demon?" she spits out through gritted teeth.

The demon turns around, her pale blue skin appearing almost translucent. Her golden eyes glow as she taps a long, pointed nail against her midnight blue lips. "Now, now, even after all we've been through?" she chides, tone mocking. "We've achieved so much together."

Jalyn clenches her fists at her sides. "I won't let you have me," she warns, eyes narrowed with determination. "I'm not weak."

Izanami scoffs, waving a hand. "One misplaced emotion, one wrong memory, intensified, and I could overwhelm you with ease, child of Shartan," she replies, frowning.

Pain shoots through Jalyn's abdomen. She doubles over and suddenly, she's back in Kinloch Hold. The walls press against her. Blood coats her inner thighs. She stares at the knife in her hand, a haunted expression staring back at her through the reflection on the blade.

_No._

She falls to her knees as shame overwhelms her. She wants it to stop. No more pain. No more fear. She's so tired. Bruises cover her flesh. Nausea burns in the pit of her stomach, a combination of humiliation and hunger.

_This isn't real._

Jalyn watches in horror as she lifts her hand, cut marks in vast relief against the pale, grey tones of her skin.

_I'm  not a blood mage._

She forces herself to throw away the blade, a scream tearing itself from her throat. She can hear the templar laughing in her ears; see his ruddy, sweaty face as he grunts above her. Jalyn vomits against the stone, memories clawing at her sanity.

Her fingers curl into fists. "This isn't real," she grits out.

"But it's close," Izanami replies, a snap of her fingers ending the memory twisted by illusion. "Anything can be real, if you choose it to be."

"Fuck you," Jalyn says, panting on her knees.

Izanami raises a thin, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "My, my such language. You have nothing to fear from one such as me, you know," she replies, a chastising look in her eyes.

Now it's Jalyn's turn to scoff. "If you don't want possession of me, why would you help me?" she asks, legs weak as she pushes herself to her feet.

The demon's face seems to harden. "It's not a matter of wanting or not," she admits, voice full of petulance. "Someone made a choice. I cannot go against my nature,"  she continues, but for once there is a bit of doubt in her tone.

"Then... Can I ask you a question?" 

Izanami waves a hand, sighing. "Go on, if you must, child."

"Why can't I remember you when I'm awake?" The question has been entering her mind lately, or at least every time she encounters the demon in the Fade.

Izanami grins. "Simple, child of Shartan," she replies, pressing a finger against the tranquil brand. "A tranquil's connection to this place has been severed. I have been the bridge, bringing your connection back, strand by frayed strand. Now that you are more mage than tranquil, you'll start to remember more."

Jalyn nods, the explanation making about as much sense as anything the demon says. "Why do you call me that?" she asks, moving on. She knows better that to expect a straight answer from a denizen of the Fade.

"Child of Shartan? Do you not have memories of being called that, once before?" Izanami's grin is wide, like the cat who caught the canary.

A memory flashes in Jalyn's mind. "My Harrowing...," Jalyn whispers, voices ringing in her head. "But why?"

Izanami shrugs. "I am no longer in the mood to answer questions. Be gone."

"Your moods are fickle," Jalyn acusses.

"Such is the nature of Choice," she says with an exaggerated sigh. "Such a shame you wasted your time  _on the wrong_ _questions,_ " she continues, eyes glowing brighter as she speaks.

The Fade begins to shift again, flashing from the streets of Denerim to Kinloch Hold to strange floating land masses that frequent the raw Fade.

"Wait! I have another question," Jalyn calls out, falling down in a spiral.

She jolts awake, breath caught in her throat. Hazy bits of memories float like bits of jetsam in her mind; images of demons and sunsets flickering and fading fast. She glances over at the sleeping form of Melina, a frown tugging at her lips.

_Someone made a choice._

Someone..... No. Jowan had promised her he'd given up blood magic. He wouldn't turn to a demon again. Right? But... it has to be him. Who else would be so desperate to bring her back to herself?

Melina's lips move in he sleep. Jalyn traces the curves of the shem's face with her eyes. It has to be Jowan. The idea of Melina consorting with a demon... It just doesn't make sense.

Jalyn feels her heart sink as she presses a kiss against Melina's forehead. Quietly, she leaves the room and heads toward Jowan's. She doesn't knock this time, just opens the door with a calm expression.

He stands by the bed, robes already discarded. His normally pale skin holds a slight tan, and he flushes red all over from her sudden entrance.

"Uh, hello, love," he says, reaching for his ragged sleeping shirt. "What, uh, brings you by at this hour?"

"You broke your promise," she replies, and even she's surprised by how abrupt she sounds.

Jowan frowns, dark brown hair falling in his eyes. "What? No, I swear, I haven't touched blood magic."

Jalyn shakes her head, eyebrows furrowing tight together. "You're lying. A demon's the one taking away my tranquility. 'Someone made a choice', she said. It has to be you." Her voice wavers, hands shaking as she balls them into fists.

"And this... demon, she said it was me?" he asks, twisting his shirt in his hands. "Demons lie, love."

"She never said your name, but who else could it be?" she shouts back, voice raising suddenly.

He tries to reach for her but she pushes against his chest. She hits her fists against his shoulders, pushing him away with anger in her heart. "No," she says, shaking her head back and forth in quick snaps. "It has to be you. It has to be." Her eyes dart around in a frantic dance, refusing to finish the accusation that threatens to form in her head. "No, it's you, it can't be," she repeats. The idea of it being anyone else causes her emotions to spiral out control, overwhelming her senses.

Jowan drops his arms, tears streaming down his face. "Yes," he replies. "Alright. I'm sorry, my love."

Jalyn freezes, his confession catching her off guard and stopping the chaos in her brain. "I..."

He drops to his knees, shoulders sagging in defeat. "Forgive me."

She wants to run, far away from his words and sad eyes.

She wants to stay, lost in his warm embrace.

"Jowan." She whispers his name, lifting his head by the chin. "Jowan," she repeats, bringing her lips to brush against his.

She was never any good with words, so she shows him instead, a gentle kiss while she wipes away his tears. "I'm sorry," she whispers into his mouth, echoing his earlier apology with one of her own.

Jowan grips her hand when she pulls back, looking into her eyes with an unasked question hovering clearly between them. She's not even sure why she's apologizing. _I'm sorry_ is all she can say, entwining their fingers. It's only two words, but it holds the meaning of a thousand more. Jowan rests his head in her lap, a sigh escaping his lips. They stay like that for hours, hands held tight, in the middle of the stone floor. The silence is calm, unstrained. Jalyn moves her fingers through the thin strands of his hair, the scent of him calming her mind as a soft numbness settles in.

Sparks crackle and pop from her fingertips, flickering against Jowan's skin. "Your magic's returning," he says.

Jalyn nods. "Yeah. Little things, like when I first got my magic." She continues playing with his hair, enjoying the texture. "Nothing unmanageable. Yet."

Jowan reaches back to slide his fingers along her jaw, gentle, soft. Like him. "You'll be careful? Let me help if it's too hard?"

She nods, looking at a stain that sits just below the far window, a dark spot against the light grey stone. She wonders if it's blood, spilled in some long forgotten uprising or slaughter, long before she came here. Another hour seems to pass before her cousin's knocking on the door, requesting her help on a mission. She sighs, ready for the night to be over.

  
  
~*~*~

 

The moon is bright in the sky as they slip through the rusted gates blocking off the Alienage. She hasn't been here since she was a child. Jalyn's eyes are alert, vigilant, as Daveth slips a guard a small bag of coin.

Maroth's hood is drawn low, hiding his face as he keeps to the shadows with Zevran. Daveth glances over at him, brow furrowed. You sure you're alright, wolfy?" he asks again, voice lowered in a whisper.

Maroth grunts, scowling as they wait. It isn't long before a shadow pulls out from the wall, walking toward them. Jalyn squeezes Jowan's hand, heart pounding. "That's my cousin, Soris," she whispers to him. 

Soris leads them through the Alienage, over the bridge and through the crumbling alleys. A redheaded woman with short, dangling braids greets them when they arrive at the vhenadahl. She wears a tight scowl on her face. 

"You," she says with a sneer, glaring at Maroth.

 _Shianni._ The name floats through her mind, memories of playing hide and seek coming to the forefront of her mind.

Maroth's expression is careful, guarded, as he eyes their cousin. "'Ello, Shianni," he says.

Soris steps from the shadows. "Cousin, where's my wife?" he asks, face pinched with worry.

Shianni's face brightens momentarily. "Sorris!" She embraces the elf, clutching him tight. "Good ta see yer alive," she whispers.  She takes a deep breath, stepping back. "Valora's... gone, cousin. The Tevinter shems took 'er, sayin' she had the plague."

Soris' face goes dark with rage, his whole body shaking. Daveth steps forward before he can respond, running his fingers along the scruff on his chin. "Tevinters? In Ferelden? What in the Maker's name is Loghain up to?" he asks, the sun catching on the Grey Warden griffon on his pendant. 

Shianni squints at him before nodding. "Aye, shem. They say they're here ta cure the plague but they're nutters if they think we'll fall fer that shite."

Maroth balls his hands into fists, anger exuding off him in waves. "Then we'll have to get rid of them."

Zevran places a hand on Maroth's arm. "I will follow you against the archdemon itself, never doubt that, but perhaps we should exercise caution, yes?"

Shianni's eyes narrow dangerously at the obvious display of intimacy. ""Figures. Nesiara's corpse is cold only a year an' already yer fuckin' someone else."

Maroth's shoulders slump in defeat and Zevran pulls away, face blank. The tension is thick in the air, a heavy weight on everyone's shoulders.

"Never mind that," Soris interrupts. "He brought a Grey Warden ta help us, Shianni."

Her expression softens as she looks at Daveth. "Never thought a shem would come ta help us. Andraste's ass, ya'd think I'd learn some social graces. Let's go, then," she replies.

Jalyn takes Jowan's hand in hers, entwining their fingers as they follow Shianni further into the Alienage.  He smiles over at her, his ever quiet presence warming her. She feels the love tranquility had stolen from her branch out in her heart, spreading gentle tendrils through her body as she stares at Jowan. 

And she remembers. She remembers he had been the reason she'd fought so hard, to save him from Uldred's schemes and lies. And it had worked. He's safe, and even free. Her lips curl into a tiny smile.  _He's alive._

She watches as Soris mumbles something to Shianni, the elven girl's eyes darting back to stare at Jalyn. Shianni's gaze moves to see her hand clasped in Jowan's, one eyebrow raised. She looks back up, meeting Jalyn's green eyes with her own, and offers her the barest hint of a smile.

A man with short blond hair and high sculpted cheekbones rushes to Shianni, pulling her into a tight hug. He pulls back, resting a hand on her belly and bumping his forehead against hers.  "Wife, you've returned," he says, his accent smooth and more refined than the Denerim elves.

"Nelaros," Shianni murmurs. "I'm fine, love."

Nelaros looks over at their group, eyes darkening when he sees Maroth. "You bastard," he says with a growl. "You dare return here?"

Maroth drops to his knees, head bowed. "I ask yer forgiveness, brother-in-law," he says, fists clenched at his sides.

Nelaros' eyes bulge in their sockets.  "Forgiveness? Nesiara was my  _sister_. Where's Lailah?"

He swallows before answering, a tear streaking down his cheek. "I left her with a clan of Dalish. She's safe," Maroth replies, looking up.

Shianni's hand connects with his cheek, a loud slap that echoes  across the square. "How could you? Ya got yer wife murdered and then ya abandoned yer own daughter? Friggin' no good pig shite bastard." 

Zevran's eyes widen, breath catching in his throat. "Daughter? I do not believe you've mentioned a daughter," he says, voice soft.

Daveth raises an eyebrow. "No, no he hasn't. Friggin' void," he grumbles. The warden runs his fingers through his messy hair, a sigh passing through his lips. 

Jalyn's eyes are narrowed as she steps forward, hand leaving Jowan's grasp. "I understand you're angry," she says, meeting her cousin's gaze. "But his child would not have been safe with us, where we've gone. I believe he did what he had to."

Shianni's expression hardens. "You've been in that circle, yeah? You don't know shite about it, _cousin_."

Soris places a hand on Shianni's shoulder, his expression a mix of concern, anger, and pity. "I'm pissed, too, right? But away from Maroth is probably better for Lailah then near 'im, yeah?"

A few tears fall from Maroth's eyes but he hastily wipes them away, still kneeling before his family. "Where's my da?" he asks, voice surprisingly steady.

Shianni sneers down at him, wrinkles creasing around her eyes. "They took him, ya bellend. He was the closest thing we had left to a hahren, an' they took him."

Maroth's skin pales beneath his tan. "Took? Took where?" he asks, voice turning into a low growl.

Shainni jerks a thumb toward a small building that has a few mages in fancy, feathered robes standing out front. Maroth gets to his feet, walking toward them, when Daveth grabs his arm. 

"Careful, wolfy," he warns. "We need a plan, first."

Maroth grunts. "I have one: kill the Tevinters."

"That's not a very detailed plan," Daveth mutters. "Try again."

Her cousin sighs, running his fingers through his long hair. "Fine. Kill the Tevinters quickly, with daggers."

"Arsehole," Daveth quips. "Come on, then. They want elves? We'll pretend to give 'em some."

"This again?  Yer so original," Maroth quips.

"Shut it, you. And pretend to be timid."

Jalyn snorts, bowing her head. "Yeah, send me in, too," she says, despite Jowan's glare of protest. She ties a band of cloth around her head, hiding the tranquil brand, eyes glued to the ground.

As they walk toward the human Tevinter mages, sweat trickles down the back of her neck. She's not an empath, like Melina, but still she can feel Maroth's pain and sorrow, his grief, like a cold, wet blanket on her skin. It's been so long since she's seen him, they were kids themselves the last time. She has no words to bring him comfort, can do nothing but quietly stand at his side.

And so she does. She stands there, silent, pretending to be meek, as Daveth claims he has some elves for the mustache twirling Tevinter slavers. Their evil eyes gleam as they hand Daveth a small bag of coin. She waits, head bowed, hair covering her face, as the men lead her by the wrists. She sees elves crammed into metal cages that hang from wicked looking hooks on the ceiling. Their faces are bruised and bloody and swollen. A few hold corpses mingled in with living elves, the putrid stench of decomposition making Jalyn gag.  

This side of Tevinter shocks her, scares her, pulse racing. Back at Kinloch, she had dreamed of Tevinter, where the mages were free. In her mind, she had painted an idyllic picture of freedom from the oppressive hand of the Chantry. But this? This clashes against her dream, a harsh vision of reality that steals her breath as she meets the eye of a woman with short, choppy red hair sitting in a cage. Bile rises in her throat at the wrongness she sees, the air of desperation so thick in the air that it weighs her shoulders down.

She sees Maroth exchange a glance with Zevran and they attack in unison, a blur of speed and movement as mana begins to crackle in the air.  Jalyn frowns, trying to call upon her own well of mana, buried under a haze of fog and suppressed emotions. It sparks, tingling against her fingertips. Elemental magic was always her specialty, the first thing she had mastered back at the tower. She closes her eyes, struggling against an invisible barrier, and calls lightning to her. She thrusts her hands outward with a shout, eyes flying open as bolts shoot around the room, landing indiscriminately on random bodies. Several bolts strike at the Tevinter mages, who yelp in surprise. One strikes Zevran, who falls to his knees, a pained expression twisting his face. The last bolt strikes the corpse in the cage, and a bitter stench of burning, rotting flesh fills the air, coating the back of her throat.

Maroth twists his body, using his previously hidden daggers to protect Zevran as he shakingly gets to his feet, the shock of the spell still making his body tremble. "The enemies are the ones in robes, yes?" he says, glancing over at her with an eyebrow raised.

She shrugs, attempting to bring up more mana with a swig of lyrium. "Still gettin' used to having magic again," she mutters. "Stupid spell."

But she has nothing left to cast another spell, so she grabs one of the fallen mages staffs, and uses it to whack a mage in the back of the head as hard she can. Blood coats the wooden staff and she brings it around again, this time smacking him in the face as he turns toward her. Blood blooms from his nose, his face contorted in an angry snarl. Fire blossoms from his fingertips as he sneers at her. The bit of cloth tied around her head, hiding the tranquil brand, falls off. His eyes widen as he looks at her, flames flickering with uncertainty. 

"How...?" he asks. 

She grins, using the staff to hit him in the family jewels. His eyes bulge from his sockets as he falls over in pain and she smashes the staff down over his head, again and again until his eyes close one last time.

Another magister grabs her from behind, his breath hot against her ear. "Pretty little tranquil, how do you show so much spirit, I wonder?" he whispers.

"Let go of me," she says with a growl, struggling against his grasp.

He breathes in deeply, nose pressed into her hair. "What a pretty thing you are, little tranquil. Should I take you back to Tevinter with me, as a pet?"

Memories assault her mind, hands roaming across her breasts and squeezing too hard. _His breath was foul as he forced himself inside her._ "No," she screams, elbowing the magister in the stomach. "I am no one's pet," she says as he lets go.

Jalyn turns toward him, forcing mana that she didn't know she had to course through her body. She lashes out, no spell in mind, and hits him with a raw force of mana that knocks him back, flying against the far wall. He slams against it with a sickening thud, spine cracking. His eyes are the only thing moving as she stalks toward him, corpses littering the ground. She grabs a dagger as she passes a large desk, a slow smile curling the edges of her lips.

She bends down low, her red hair falling to brush against his cheek. "I will never be someone's pet again," she whispers, enjoying the fear in his eyes. She pulls the blade of her dagger sharp across his throat, the blood spraying her in the face. 

Jalyn can feel the power in it, singing forth from the blood like a promise. She grimaces, using the edge of her sleeve to wipe her face. "No," she whispers too soft for anyone but the dead to hear. "I don't want that power."

 Maroth rests a hand on her shoulder, face pinched in concern. "You okay, cousin?"

She nods before freezing, staring down at the blood on her hands. He's dead. She killed him. She's killed two living, sentient, beings. The realization hits her like a suckerpunch to the gut, knocking the air from her lungs as her heart pounds like mad. "I killed them," she whispers, pulse in her throat. She's never taken a life before. 

Maroth's eyebrows raise as he looks between her and the corpse. "Right. That ya did. He friggin' deserved it, too," he replies.

She knows that. She knows, somewhere in the back of her mind, that she was only defending herself. But Maroth didn't understand why it was different for her. Because that's how it starts. As a mage, everything is different. It starts small, a small act in self defense. Then it grows and grows, swelling into something so large that it's no longer containable. The temptation, the fear, the need to survive- it all brought the demons whispering closer in their ears.

Jalyn pushes the thought down, buries it under the slow creeping numbness that still lingers in her brain. He's dead. There's no way to change it, to take it back, to protect herself without killing him. 

The door creaks open, a soft scraping sound against the floor. She turns, watching as Daveth and Jowan step through, blood coating their armour.  Daveth looks around the room, nodding appreciatively at the slew of bodies. "Too bad you couldn't leave even one alive for questioning," he quips with a small grin.

Jalyn blinks at him, inwardly horrified by his casual remark. "I- " she begins, before Maroth interrupts.

"Eh, yer just sore we didn't need yer help," he replies, lips stretching into a wide grin.

Jowan meets her eyes across the room, his expression a mirror of her own. A wave of relief washes through her that he's here, that she's not alone and someone understands, even without words.

She doesn't hold his hand, but walks close to him as they follow the Grey Warden through the crumbling hallways of the small apartments. The tiny child-sized bloody handprints make her heart ache. When they reach the guards, she doesn't fight, just stands off to the side, trying to make herself small and unseen as the others do battle. She does the same all the way through the warehouse. She doesn't want to fight. She doesn't have the strength. Not yet. Not here.

When they reach the back room, Jalyn's heart jumps into her throat at what she sees. A bald mage with a short brown beard, neatly trimmed, holds an elf she recognizes as her Uncle Cyrion. A knife is pushed against his throat, a tiny drop of blood staining the blade. 

_His eyes are warm, friendly, as she looks up at him, face pinched in a scowl. "Who are you?" she demands to know, looking around the tiny hovel._

_Cyrion smiles, ruffling her hair gently. "I'm yer uncle, child. This will be yer new home, if you'll have it."_

_Jalyn looks around, pain and grief sharp in her chest. "I miss my mamae and da," she whispers, sniffling back tears._

_Cyrion bends down, looking straight into her eyes. "I know. So do I. Yer da was my brother."_

_"So we're family?" Jalyn asks._

_"Yes, if you'll accept us."_

Maroth's voice breaks her from her memory. "Let him go," he says with a tight growl. "Or you'll never see sunlight again."

"Now, now, is this how we begin? With bluster? I was hoping for... civility,"  the mage purrs, grinning. "My name is Caladrius. And you," he says, glancing at Daveth, "are the Grey Warden the regent keeps going on about. One can scarcely get a word besides 'Warden' out of Regent Loghain these days. It's surpassed even 'gold' in popularity."

Cyrion winces, but keeps his gaze levelled on Maroth. "I knew ya'd come back, my son," he says, voice pinched and tired. Cuts line his wrinkled face and arms, his grey hair matted with blood.

"Shit," Daveth whispers. Raising his voice a bit to be heard across the room, he continues. "What do you want, Tevinter?"

The mage grins. "My life, for starters. Allow me to leave with my slaves, and I'll give you the evidence you need against the Regent."

Maroth's lip curls up in a snarl. "Over my dead body," he replies.

Daveth shoots him a glare before looking back over at Caladrius. "I've got a better deal for ya," he says, voice strained.

"Oh? I can't wait to hear this," Caladrius replies.

"Leave the slaves. You get to keep your life and all the profits you've made so far, and leave."

Caladrius clucks his tongue, sighing. "I can't just leave my property behind," he says with a smirk. "Whatever would my mother say? I can hear her chastising voice now: 'Caladrius, don't leave your toys lying around', she'd say."

Jalyn narrows her eyes at the man. "We are not toys," she grits out, clenching her fists.

Cyrion closes his eyes as the blade presses tighter against his throat. "Son, I want you to know, I love you," he says, voice soft as trickles of blood leak from his neck.

Caladrius chuckles. "How touching." He pulls the blade harsh against Cyrion's throat, blood pouring from the open wound like a waterfall as power builds in the room. Jalyn can feel it, the power of blood, like a slick coat of slime against her skin. Maroth bellows in rage as the magic continues to fill the room with its power. 

Her heart is pounding as she watches the battle from the corner, pressing her body tight against the wall. She watches Jowan closer than the rest, hoping that the temptation doesn't pull him in. He relies heavily on elemental magic instead, throwing lightning bolts around the room as Jalyn sighs in relief.

Her eyes follow Maroth as he battles against Caladrius, his body covered in wounds from the Tevinter's blood magic spells. He shouts as he shoves his spear through the magister's chest, voice breaking. The light fades from Caladrius' eyes as Maroth falls to his knees, and Jalyn doesn't need to be an empath to feel his pain.

He crawls over to his father's body, moving Cyrion's head and cradling it in his lap. "I'm sorry," he whispers as he sobs, body hunched over his father's corpse. "I'm sorry," he repeats.

Zevran kneels down, leaning against Maroth's back and holding him close. No words are spoken between the two, and Jalyn looks away, unable to handle the well of emotions filling up inside her. 

She meets Jowan's eyes, a single tear trickling down her face. His thumb is warm as he wipes it away. They have what they need, the evidence against Loghain. But somehow, it feels empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to share what the reference behind the nug named "Nalani Brechtel" for awhile now- it's an anagram of Hannibal Lecter. I amuse me sometimes. 
> 
> Here's a one-shot from Shianni's POV of the Alienage Massacre after Maroth left: http://archiveofourown.org/works/6462772
> 
> And of course, both Maroth and Jalyn have backstories written out. Collision is Jalyn's, and takes place in the circle. A Smuggler's Chant is Maroth's and takes place in Denerim, and includes cameos of Sera and Jenny.
> 
> And the rare pair of Nelaros/Shianni is featured in the above one-shot and A Smuggler's Chant (which is just three short chapters).


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The term "Mabari Throne" was coined by Morgenleoht and is not canon, but I loved it so much that I got permission from them to use it.

A knock on Melina's door startles her, loud and abrupt in the comfortable silence she had been enjoying. She bites her lip, holding back a sigh, as she opens the door. Daveth stands on the other side, shifting awkwardly. He offers her a sheepish grin. His emotions are a swirling mess of nervous energy so she offers him a calming smile in return.

"Good morning, Warden Daveth," she says, dropping to a small curtsey almost on reflex. 

He nods, albeit a bit too rapidly, and she can tell he has a request to make. Something he doesn't want to ask of her. "Right. Hello, Melina. Have your breakfast yet? Landsmeet's today," he replies, the words blurring together in a rush. 

She shakes her head, stomach grumbling at the question. "I haven't. Would you like to join me?"

"No time. Lots of stuff to do," he replies, a rueful grin curling his lips as he shakes his head. "Uh... Speakin' of...."

Melina grabs a soft wool cape, the pink colour contrasting with the charcoal grey of her robe. "I can sense something is on your mind," she begins, hesitant. "Please, I want to help. Tell me what you need of me."

Daveth lets out a slow breath, closing his eyes before opening them again, meeting her gaze. "I need you talk to Alistair. We need all the support in the Landsmeet. Anora... Anora has promised her support if we allow her to remain Queen."

She bites her inner cheek, frowning. "Her father left Duncan to die. Alistair won't be pleased, I think," she replies.

He nods, wincing slightly. "Yeah. Which is why I convinced Anora to marry him, instead. Rule together, and all."

Melina freezes, heart skipping a beat. There's a strange feeling in her chest, reminiscent of loss, but she's not sure why. "I don't think Alistair will like that," she whispers, wrapping her cape around her shoulders.

"Right. So, uh, that's what I need you to do. Convince him. I think he'll listen to you. He's still a bit sore with me over the whole 'you have to be King' thing."

Her chest feels tight, an acute pain that sends sharp pinpricks through her heart. Why does she suddenly feel so sad? She takes a deep breath and forces a smile. "Of course. I will do what I can, if you think I can be of help."

She sighs after Daveth leaves, body sagging under the weight of her emotions, chaotically whirling through her. But she doesn't have the time to dwell on it, to try to make sense of the conflicting feelings inside herself. She has a job to do.

_The Maker indeed is my salvation, I am confident and unafraid. For the Maker is my strength and my might and He has been my salvation._

Melina sees Alistair in the far corner of the library, looking at the spines of books with a small scowl colouring his face. "Alistair," she says, a smile curving her lips as he turns to greet her.

His face brightens at the sight of her and her heart leaps in her chest at his gentle expression. "Melina, good morning. Did you sleep well?"

She nods, walking toward him. "I did, thank you." She hesitates, unsure how to broach the subject. Her face heats up as she remembers his confession at Redcliffe, the rose she had left behind, and the kiss they had almost shared. She's still unsure what she feels, but she suddenly wishes she had the chance to find out. But it doesn't matter. She's a mage and he's to be King. 

"Alistair, have you thought about the Landsmeet?" she asks, twisting the fabric of her cape in her hands.

He crinkles his face, annoyance and frustration clear in his expression. "I'm trying not to," he admits. "Though I'm guessing someone told Anora I'm planning to steal her throne. She's been giving nasty glares since we rescued her."

 _Maker guide me._ "Well, uh, Daveth spoke to me about it. He said he's found a way to garner more support. But he's afraid you won't be receptive."

Alistair frowns, his eyes wary. "I'm not going to like this, am I?"

 _I don't._ Melina takes a deep breath, steeling herself. "He wants you to marry Anora."

His eyes grow wide as he takes in her words, face mottled and angry. "Marry her? Marriage, as in be her husband?" Melina's heart quickens at the thought, but she doesn't interrupt. "I- I can't. He's already spoken to her, hasn't he? Of course he has." He pauses, taking in her face. "What... What do you think?"

She's surprised by the question. "Me? I- I don't know. If it will settle the matter quickly, then perhaps you should consider it. The Blight won't stand around and wait for us, right? It feels like we're wasting time, with the politics. I don't know. I'm just a mage. I've never been outside of the circle. And I'm not a Warden. Maybe I'm wrong."

Alistair closes his eyes, and she can feel the sadness coming off him in ripples. She steps closer, hesitant, unsure, and wraps her arms around him. "I'm so sorry you're stuck in this position," she whispers, holding him. "I know you just want to be a Warden and forget all this."

He clings to her for a moment, his strong arms warm around her, before pulling away. "You're not wrong," he replies. "We do need to settle the Landsmeet, and quickly. Thank you. For being the one to come to me. I know this hasn't been easy for you." He tucks a strand of her curls behind her ear and presses a soft kiss against her forehead. "Thank you," he says again, before walking away, leaving her alone.

 

 

~*~*~

 

The Landsmeet chamber is larger than she expected. The nobles sit high in the rafters, and Melina has to strain her neck to see their faces. She stands next to Daveth, trying to hide how nervous she feels. "They're not happy," she whispers in his ear. "I can sense anxiety and mistrust everywhere."

Daveth nods, listening as Eamon and Loghain both make their speeches. Loghain makes a convincing case against Orlais, but tendrils of doubt float through the nobles gathered.

"The threat," Daveth begins, "Is not with Orlais. The threat is with the darkspawn."

"There's enough refugees in my bannorn to make that abundantly clear," one noble says, a female with rusty brown hair.

Melina nods at Daveth, letting him know without words that he's on the right path. "If we do not fight these monsters, Ferelden will fall. We cannot give in to old fears."

Loghain scoffs, crossing his arms as he glares down his nose at them. She senses fear, but also determination, from him. He doesn't feel like the evil man she had envisioned over the past year. He feels... Lost.  And a bit lonely. "You were not here when Orlais still occupied our land. You did not see how they flattened our fields and raped our wives. You're simply a puppet, attempting to put a so-called lost prince on the Mabari throne so that the Orlesian lickspittles can issue commands through him. And I will not allow it!"

There's a shift in the room, mostly from the elder members of the Landsmeet as old fears and memories re-enter their minds. She scratches the side of her nose, a signal to Daveth that he's losing some of them.

"So was it out of fear of Orlais that you abandoned the battlefield to let your King die at darkspawn hands? I will not allow my home to be overrun by those monsters. That's why I joined the Wardens," Daveth counters. "To save Ferelden, not hand it over to enemy hands."

A man with greying hair in a low braid frowns, stepping forward and leaning against the railing. "The South has fallen, Loghain. Will you let darkspawn take the whole country for fear of Orlais?" 

Whispered mutterings follow his statement, and the tension rises. She taps her chin, encouraging Daveth to bring forth the evidence they've gathered. He takes a deep breath, and begins.

"You speak of wanting to save this nation from Orlais, but your own deeds condemn you. First, you allowed your own right hand, Arl Howe, to imprison and torture innocents. Bann Sighard can testify to that, since it was his son we found there. The things done to him were beyond even our healer's skill. I also have documents that you sold elves to Tevinter. As slaves." He holds up the documents they had received, a stern expression on his normally cheerful face.

The nobles raise their voices as the papers are passed around, their outrage palpable. "Slavery is illegal in Ferelden, Loghain. I cannot believe the Hero of Riverdane would condone these things," one of them says, and Melina can feel her disappointment.

Loghain bows his head briefly before looking up, a renewed sense of anger in him. "You dare criticize me, when you murdered an Arl in his home? If Howe had committed these crimes, then he should have been brought before the seneschal, not be slaughtered like an animal. As for the slavery, I regret that action deeply but sometimes we must make hard choices in the face of war."

Flashes of Izanami enter her mind, and the choice she herself had made to free Jalyn. She winces at the truth of his words, however terrible his crimes may have been. They'd all made choices they weren't proud of, in an attempt to do what they thought was right. 

"Funny you should mention Arls," Daveth says, "when you sent an apostate to poison Arl Eamon."

Loghain scoffs at this, waving his hand as if he were swatting a fly. "I assure you,  _Warden_ , if I were going to send anyone, it would be one of my own soldiers."

The female noble speaks again, this time with clear anger in her tone and body language. "Indeed? My brother tells a very different tale. He says you snatched an apostate from the Chantry's justice. Coincidence?"

The outrage mingled with fear from the crowd burns against her skin and she raises her shields, just a little, to block out the heady emotions. She knew bringing up Anders would have an impact. Mages weren't trusted, apostates even less. That a Teyrn would work with one was damning indeed. 

Melina listens as the Grand Cleric Elemena judges Loghain, her tone harsh and final, a swift condemnation that the Chantry will not allow such transgressions. She shifts, shuffling from foot to foot, another signal her and Daveth had agreed upon beforehand.  They were winning, by a large margin.  _Thank the Maker._

The atmosphere is no longer bitter, biting snaps in her head. The tension is still thick, heavy, a heaving weight that tugs at her mind but no longer against their own party. It had shifted from mistrust of the Wardens, to mistrust of Loghain.

Queen Anora steps forward. Melina shivers as Loghain's face darkens, his steel tight determination only bolstered by his anger and disappointment.

Anora's face is a carefully arranged mask, eyebrows furrowed to show concern but her firm posture denoted strength. "Lords and Lady of the Landsmeet, I propose a compromise. We cannot win the war against the Darkspawn alone; we need the Grey Wardens. I believe my husband, the good and valiant King Cailan, would have wanted unity and victory for Ferelden. We can grant him that desire." She turns, looking toward Alistair, and a tiny pinprick of hesitation brushes Melina. "Alistair is Maric's son. Much like his half-brother, Alistair wants what is best for Ferelden, and to defeat the Darkspawn threat. Together, he and I should rule together, and together we can defeat even the Archdemon itself."

Her speech is powerful, full of easy confidence and well chosen words. Melina turns toward Alistair, pleased that the Queen's speech had its intended impact, her lips twisted into a small smile. Her face falls, however, as his emotions hit her full force; a sad yearning that tears at her heart. 

Each noble speaks in turn, announcing their vote. Each vote is to stand by the Wardens, all save one from a bald and mousy looking man with watery eyes. The majority wins, however, and it's a clear victory. Loghain bows his head, fists clenching briefly before his head flies up, fire burning in his eyes. "You dare judge me? How many of you have fought and bled for this country the way I have? I will not allow this."

Anora steps forward, blue eyes pleading. "Father, please. This is what is best. We can  _save Ferelden,_ " she whispers, urgent.

"Maric wouldn't want Ferelden handed over to Orlais on a bloody platter," he replies, his voice full of fever. 

"Maric is dead, Father. Do you wish to join him so badly you'd continue this crusade in order to hasten your own death? You cannot win here," Anora says, her voice weary, as if she's had this thought a thousand times in her lifetime. 

Loghain's shoulders almost seem to sag, an unseen weight weighing him down. "And I cannot give up, either," he replies. "I'm sorry." Loghain's face hardens as he looks at Daveth. "A man is made by the qualities of his enemies. Maric told me that once. I wonder if it's more a compliment to you or me. Let's end this honourably. A duel."

Daveth glances at Alistair before nodding, a short jerk of his head. "Fine. And the Landsmeet will agree to stick with that?"

Eamon nods, beard twitching. "We will abide the outcome."

Loghain grunts, shaking his head ruefully. "Will you face me yourself, or do you have a champion?"

Alistair steps forward, lips parting to volunteer. Melina can sense Anora, however, her fear of her father's death clashes against Alistair's equally strong desire for it. She shakes her head firmly at Daveth- there will be no alliance if Alistair slays Loghain in battle. 

"I will face ya, myself, Loghain," Daveth replies, stopping Alistair in his tracks. 

Despite his outrage, and want of revenge, Alistair backs down. He defers to Daveth, even in this, and for that Melina is grateful. 

The battle is neither swift nor easy. Loghain has the upperhand as a seasoned veteran in combat, his keen eye for strategy has not dulled with time. But Daveth is quick, and smoothly dodges and rolls, sneaking in for backstabs with his daggers. Melina hadn't realized the Warden was so proficient with the weapon. She never saw him put down his bow.

Soon, both men were covered in each other's blood, but Loghain was beginning to tire. She could feel him losing his edge as she hung back in the shadows, wringing her hands with nervous anticipation. A clean swipe of Daveth's dagger across a gap in the armour and the hero of Riverdane drops, falling to one knee with a pained expression.

He growls low in his throat, pushing himself back up. "I'm not defeated that easily, Warden," he says, charging toward him.

But his wounds slow him considerably as Daveth quickly moves to the side, bringing the pommel of his dagger down on the back of Loghain's neck. The clang of metal as he falls again, and the crowd cheers. Loghain tries to get up, arms shaking as he pushes against the floor. "You can't..." He tries to talk but he barely has the strength to lift himself to his knees, sword loosely gripped in his hand.

Daveth furrows his brows. "Give up," he urges. 

"Never," Loghain returns, weakly swinging his sword. 

Daveth ducks, rolling to the right. He swipes his blade along an opening on the greaves, slicing through the tender leg muscles. He holds the blade against Loghain's throat. "Give up," he repeats.

Loghain looks across the hall, and meets his daughter's eyes. "I'm sorry," he replies.

Moving quicker than Melina had thought him capable of, he wrenches a hidden dagger from his armour, spinning around to shove it between the leather plates of Daveth's armour.

"For Maric," Loghain cries.

Blood spews from Daveth's mouth, eyes wide in surprise. Melina feels his consciousness slipping away. Biting her lip, she doesn't even hesitate as she sends the softest bit of vigor his way, slipping past the anti magic defenses. 

Daveth grits his teeth, renewed determination in his eyes. Loghain doesn't try to dodge as Daveth's dagger slides across his throat, ripping through the exposed skin with ease.

Anora screams, her entire body shaking. Loghain falls, and this time he doesn't get back up. Daveth's knees hit the floor and Melina rushes to his side, a healing tonic in her hand. She presses it to his lips, the cool potion accompanied by her own magic, knitting the more major wounds back together. She glances at Alistair, silently urging him to go to Anora. If theirs is to be a truly successful alliance, then it needs to start now.

Alistair seems to understand her because he does walk to Anora, albeit a bit stiffly. He reaches out a hand to her as she kneels on the ground, tears streaking her normally calm face. The other hand rubs the back of his neck, his discomfort apparent. "Uh, Milady, I am sorry that it ended this way, for what it's worth," he mumbles, and she can tell it must have been rehearsed beforehand, in case of this outcome.

She looks up at Alistair, before taking a deep breath. She doesn't accept his hand, instead wiping the tears from her eyes as she stands on her own. "Thank you, Warden Alistair. Hopefully, this will be the last tragedy that befalls our Alliance," she replies, her tone equally as rehearsed.

Daveth sighs as Melina meets his gaze. "Good. We're done here. We can finally finish this bloody war," he whispers, and only she can hear it.

It's over.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Melina watches out her window as Alistair and Daveth lead a small force out of Denerim, toward Redcliffe. Riordan, another senior Grey Warden, rides beside them, their griffon winged helmets a clear silhouette. She knows most of their companions ride with those troops. The castle feels so empty with most of their troops gone. She feels Jalyn's presence behind her.

She turns from her window with a sigh, heart heavy with worry. "Do you think they'll be alright?" she asks her friend.

Jalyn's brow furrows. "Dunno." She pauses, pursing her lips before continuing. "Shem, you've know the Wardens longer, right? What're they like?" she asks.

Melina considers her words before answer. "I'm not really sure what the Wardens, as a whole, are like. The only ones I've met are Daveth, Alistair, and Sir Cousland. They're good men, I think. Why?"

Her expression is guarded when she replies. "Jowan wants to join 'em. Asked Daveth last night, after the Landsmeet. Says they're going to do somethin' called the Joining at Redcliffe."

"Maker's breath, why?" Melina asks, stunned that the blood mage would want to join such a noble organization.

"Because you made them recruit _me._ So he figures it's the best way to protect me, to make sure it's safe. Daveth mentioned I'd have to undergo the Joining once the Tranquility was gone. Said it was dangerous. Jowan wants to know how dangerous it is, and to be with me if I go through with it."

Melina bites her lip, brushing her fingers across a stray strand of Jalyn's cinnamon red hair. 

_"Shem, can you promise me something?"_

_"Anything!"_

_"Be good, okay?"_

_"You'll be safe, if you're good, okay?"_

Memories splinter across her mind, a sharp, stabbing pain piercing her chest. She tries to force a smile, lips wavering. Dane whimpers behind her, nudging her back with his cold nose.

_Promise me._

Jalyn's brow furrows as tears slip past Melina's barriers, staining her cheeks with her pain. She shakes her head, curls falling forward. She's tried to keep her promise. To tamper her emotions. To be good. 

But she failed. She broke her promise the moment she made her choice. And what she hates most is that she doesn't regret the choice to free Jalyn. She hates herself for every time she feels happiness at the sight of her friend's smile or frown. Every emotion is a blessing, and every emotion is a curse.

"I'm sorry," Melina says, rubbing at the tears. "I'm just worried, is all. I don't like them going off without us."

Jalyn nods, sitting on her hands to keep warm. "Do you think they'll come home safe again?"

The sound of rain hits against the stone, lightning flashes outside the window pane. "We can only pray," she replies. _Maker watch over them._

 

 

~*~*~

 

"Milady! Milady Melina, come quickly, please!" The door to Melina's room bursts open, slamming against the far wall. Fear and panic explode in her head, and she struggles to breathe as it claws at her; she pulls up her barriers against the sudden intrusion. Dane howls, a loud and long sound that echoes across the stone room.

A servant stands before her, eyes wild with terror. "The da- darkspawn are coming! They're at the gates. Maker, save us, the city guards can't hold 'em." He drops to his knees, hands clasped as he stares at the ceiling. "Maker, please don't forsake us. We hear your words and we walk only where you place us. Please, Maker, send us a miracle."

It's been three weeks since Alistair and the others had left. Maker's breath, what was the horde doing in Denerim? She gets to her feet, reaching for her staff as the clanking of armour echoes closer. Cullen's face is beat red and coated in slight sheen of sweat when he appears in her doorway. His curls are a tumbled mess, falling into his eyes as he grips his sword and shield in his hands.

"They're here," he says, avoiding her gaze as she throws on a dressing gown over her long nightdress in lieu of a mage's robe. "I've organized those who can fight in the courtyard. Servants and townspeople. Thugs and prisoners, too. We haven't time to be picky," he says, and she's impressed by the level of underlying calm in his tone.

Melina nods, grabbing her staff. "And those who can't fight?"

"With... With the tranquil and servants, here. Most formidable building nearby."

She takes a deep breath to steady her shaking hands. Alistair will come. The Grey Wardens _will_ come. She can't believe the worst has happened, that they died at Redcliffe. No, they're alive. They're alive. He's alive.

She looks at Cullen, his eyes familiar, like home. "Well, we better do what we can to hold off the horde until the Wardens return. Maker watch over us," she replies.

His eyes close, briefly. "And may He guide our souls if we perish." 

The walk to the main gates feels like the longest walk of her life. She can feel the darkspawn horde, smashing down the city gates, on the fringes of her senses. A dark, tainted force that feels alien in her mind. The corruption tears at the land, rippling and twisting and killing as the gate comes slamming down. She takes a deep breath, pulling forth her mana and erecting a tight barrier around the Estate back in the market district. She steps back, trying to blend in with the shadows so she can maintain the barrier and heal their fighters. Cullen glances at her out of the corner of his eye, a frown turning his lips down.

"Why don't you stand inside the barrier?" he asks, voice barely controlled as they listen to the rampaging sounds of the horde rushing toward them. The fear in the air is so thick, that Melina can't block it all out. It sits in her throat, tasting of charred wood and burning buildings.

"I can't heal from there," she explains. "The barrier would block my magic, as well."

The horde descends, and Dane howls. Izanami stands next to her, lip curled. "I did not agree to certain death," she whispers in Melina's ear.

Melina grits her teeth as Cullen lets out a battle cry, leading the charge against the monstrous horde. She smiles in gratitude when he allows her spell to add to his speed and accuracy. "If you leave, you break the deal. I want Wynne back," she replies, each word slow and deliberate. "And besides, if you're so powerful, than this should be nothing to you."

Izanami raises an eyebrow. She snorts, a clear sound of derision, as the life energy of one of the guard falters. "Foolish mortal. Do you think me to be some invincible creature? Flattering, but untrue. I am as mortal as the body I inhabit." 

This time it's Melina who snorts as she scans the battlefield. She heals the fallen, rejuvenating their lifeforce with her mana. They're sorely outnumbered. Blood coats the ground so thick she can't tell darkspawn and human blood apart. She sends out gentle waves of healing, bolstered by Izanami's demonic magic. She hates to use it, but she can't let all these people die, either.

"Somehow, I doubt that very much," she replies to the demon's comments.

"Oh? You doubt that I am mortal? Perhaps I should stay, and fight, and let this body die so that we may test your theory. You are, after all, an expert on demon possession, correct?"

A high pitched whine echoes above the battle sounds. Panic makes Melina's heart race. She searches for Dane's energy source, anything that felt like the hound in her mind. "Nice try," she replies. "I thought you were still claiming to be a spirit, or have you finally thrown off that charade?"

Melina finds Dane's energy, a flickering force that flutters hesitantly in her mind. She's already running low on mana, her lyrium supply nearly exhausted. She pushes a bit of her strength into the dog, her faithful friend, and falls to her knees. Pain racks her body. The barrier shakes as she struggles to keep it solid.

"Foolish mortal," Izanami repeats, pressing a hand to Melina's shoulder. A bit of her own strength returns to her, enough so that she may stand again. "Be careful when you heal," the demon admonishes. "If you run low on magic, and no spirit is able to assist, it's your own will you put into it. It can kill you, if you're not careful."

Melina frowns as she sips a lyrium potion, slowing letting the mana grow in power. "I don't remember this in Wynne's lessons," she replies. 

She strengthens the knock back glyphs laid around the estate before sending her senses back out across the battlefield. She can feel her energy slipping away, even with Izanami's help. 

The demon sighs. "A life for a life, mortal. Do you think your precious Chantry allows you to learn the deepest secrets of magic?" Izanami starts to walk away, a soft blue hue emanating from her body. "

Wait!" Melina cries out. "You can't leave."

Izanami looks over her shoulder, a crooked smile twisting her wrinkled lips. "You won, mortal. I'll stay, and join the battle," she replies, before letting out an unholy screech and leaping into battle, brandishing her staff like a sword against the darkspawn.

The colour drains from Melina's face as the energy of the battle shifts, the darkspawn falling in clusters. But still, it isn't enough against the sheer size and relentlessness of the darkspawn army. She can feel Cullen in her mind, his wounds deep. A sword pierces his stomach. He falls to the ground, a roar ripping itself from his lips. She can see him there, blood matting his golden curls. Dane growls low in his throat as he leaps at the hurlock. The blade cuts the dog's mouth as Dane tears it from the creature's hand.

Together, hound and templar, they defeat the hurlock, but their wounds are deep and fatal. Melina sends out her mana but it falters. She tries again, trying to reach them both before their hearts stop beating. She chugs a lyrium potion, ignoring the warnings her mentor always gave of the risks of drinking the substance too quick.  It doesn't matter, she has to save them both. 

The barrier shakes again. She doesn't have the strength for it all. She can't keep the barrier up and save them both. She falls to her knees. Blood drips from her own lips as she screams in frustration. She can't lose them. She can't let anyone die. She can't...

"Maker, please forgive me," Melina whispers. 

She throws out her mana one last time, binding it with her own life, connecting her energy with the spell, and pushes it into Dane and Cullen. Her palms hit the ground but the sound is lost amidst the clashing of armour and steel. A new energy enters her senses, something darker and more twisted than all the darkspawn. A dragon shaped shadow hovers across the ground before soaring away. She lifts her head up as its claws tear away the buildings. She knows, in that moment, as the archdemon's mind brushes against her own, that her magic cannot keep that creature out. Blood pours freely from her nose as she battles the dark taint of the creature's mind, the power too much to handle. Purple flames burst from its mouth, and the guards scream and die and there's nothing she can do to resurrect them this time.

Her arms shake as she tries to sit up. Frantically, she searches for Cullen only to find her well of mana dry. Somehow, she still draws breath. Faith flickers inside her.  _Not your time_.

Melina's eyes are wide as she looks for any sign that someone she knows, anyone, still lives. She meets the gaze of Izanami across the field as horns sound in the distance.

_They're here._

Dane howls as the Grey Warden's armies rush the darkspawn, their tired eyes battling despite the obvious fatigue. They push the horde back, and more blood stains the streets. The archdemon lets out a roar and flies higher, out of reach of even the Dalish archers.

Her vision blurs as she gets to her feet, searching for Alistair. He finds her first, wrapping her in a tight hug. "Thank the Maker," he whispers into her hair.

She wobbles on her feet when he releases her, and Izanami frowns at her. "You tried to give your life force for healing, didn't you?" She barks the question, tone harsh and demanding.

Melina offers them a tiny smile, taking the lyrium and health potions Alistair offer her. "I couldn't let anyone die," she replies, her answer simple.

Alistair grabs her by the chin. "You're life is valuable, too. Don't throw it away so easily."

Daveth nods in agreement before exchanging a glance with Jowan. "Right. Archdemon tricked us, led us away from its real target. Bloody thing is clever as sin. We need to draw it toward Fork Drakon."

Melina shivers as her health returns to her, memories of that place still haunting her.

"You want to draw it to the highest point? Smart," Cullen replies, and her heart feels suddenly lighter at seeing him alive.

Melina bites her lip, looking at their gathered forces. She sees everyone accounted for except... "Where's Riordan? The senior Warden?"

Daveth raises an eyebrow but points to the top of a nearby tower. There, in the distance, she can see the silhouette of a griffin winged helmet. The archdemon hovers across from it, so close it seems to be taunting the Warden. She watches as Riordan crouches down before leaping into the air, his dagger slamming into the flimsy webbing of the archdemon's wing. The beast roars in pain and anger, flapping wildly as Riordan is flung through the air, his dagger ripping the wing before he flies loose. Melina watches in horror as Riordan soars toward the ground, nothing there to cushion his crushing fall to the ground below. 

"Right, the beast is injured. Stuck up there, now. Won't be able to fly far like that. We need to get to it before it finds a way to heal," Daveth says, voice cold and even.

Melina's heart races beneath her chest as Daveth issues commands. "Cullen, lead Leliana and the Knights of Redcliff to the Market District. There's a darkspawn general there. Slay it, if you can. He'll be bigger than the other lot, probably more armour, too."

Cullen nods abruptly, glancing in Melina's direction. A shadow seems to pass over his gaze as he considers something. "You're taking her, aren't you?" he asks, not waiting for an answer before turning to Alistair. "Be careful. Watch out for her."

And even as she hears his words, she can't decipher their meaning, if he means to be careful for her or because of her.

She watches his back as he marches away, heading through the main gates, and toward the Market District where Jalyn and the other survivors wait in hiding, She hopes the glyphs hold on their own, now that she no longer maintains the barrier. 

"Wolfy," Daveth continues. "Take Zevran and the Dalish to the alienage. There's another general there. You know what the mission is," he says. 

Maroth steps forward, a slow smile turning his lips into a smirk. "Right. Kill the darkspawn an' try not to die, yeah?" His expression turns serious as he clasps Daveth's hand. "You be careful up there, right? I'll be pissed if I saved ya in the Deep Roads just ta have ya die 'ere."

Daveth chuckles as they embrace, hugging each other briefly. "Right, wolfy. Don't end up dead."

Daveth turns to Morrigan, his face falling into a frown. "Go on, go with them," he grits out, pointing toward the small army of elves heading away. 

Morrigan shakes her head, chin held out stubbornly. "After all that? I will not be going with you?" Her eyes flash with anger as she stands there, a force to be reckoned with even amidst the blight. "No. We will head into the city together. As it should be," she says, each word a command.

"Dammit, woman," Daveth growls, before sighing. "Right. Not like I can convince you otherwise," he says, glaring at her. 

Melina frowns as she looks at Morrigan, a strange feeling overwhelming her. Another presence hovers on the very edge of her perception, flickering delicately. Morrigan narrows her eyes, the golden orbs burning.

"Stay out of my mind, healer," she warns. The witch's shields slam into place, blocking Melina out. 

She follows behind them, next to Jowan, as the five of them head toward Fort Drakon. "I hear you're a Warden now," she says to the mage. "Con- Congratulations. It's an honour to join the Wardens."

Jowan bites his lip, hair falling in his eyes. "Is Jalyn safe?" he asks, taking Melina by surprise.

She looks inside Jowan, looking deeper than she normally dares for fear of touching blood magic. "You... love her, don't you?" Melina asks. She sighs, not waiting for an answer. "Last I saw, she was alive, in the estate. I hope that she remains so."

Jowan's eyes widen, panic fluttering through him. "The estate? In the Market District?" The colour drains from his face. 

It takes Melina a moment to figure out why he's afraid. "I doubt very much Cullen would harm her," she says, tone dripping with disdain for his distrust of the templars.

Jowan shakes his head, gripping his staff tightly. "You have no idea," he says, before marching on ahead. 

She's left alone with her own thoughts as they battle through the backstreets where darkspawn lie in wait around every corner. With every advance they seem to make, pressing on toward Fort Drakon, they lose more and more of their dwarven and mage allies. Melina leads the mages in Irving's place, carefully guiding them through battle, enchanter and apprentice side by side. She wishes the templars were there, fighting by their side as well, but Daveth had sent them with Cullen and the soldiers. 

The stout folk follow close behind, bringing up the rear defense force. Soon, they fall into a rough pattern, marching and fighting, leaving behind the fallen as they go.

She only worriers when two ogres show up, the ground shaking beneath their feet. She steadies the mages, telling the warriors to hold back. Together, they let out a joint spell, entrapping both ogres in a bitter whirlwind of ice and snow. It freezes them in place, and Daveth calls for the archers to send in their arrows while her mages continue to pelt the creatures with bolts of mana. One ogre falls to it's knees, salvia frozen in icicles around it's mouth.

The other breaks free with a growl that knocks the mages to the ground, breaking the spell. As suddenly as the small ice storm appeared, it vanished in a huff of snow and wind. The ogre charges forward, ramming through the dwarves. Screams pierce the air, and Melina scrambles to heal those with lesser wounds. 

She whispers words in Ancient Tevene, an old spell she had found in a dusty tome way in the back, forgotten spaces of the circle library. Strange shapes twist in bright blue along the ground. A large, purple foot trips the trap, freezing itself in place with a menacing scowl petrified on it's ugly face.

Blood drips from her nose and she's not sure if it's fueled the spell or a result of the strain on her body. She pushes the thought to the back of mind. It's not important. Not now. Not with still so much to lose.

What sounds like a dragon screams in the night, a rain of purple fire descending upon them. It burns her skin and poisons the air, tainting everything with a thick cloud of acid.

Daveth calls out above the war, voice ringing as he calls for them to move to higher ground. Melina waits behind, ushering the apprentices toward the Wardens with a sleeve over her mouth. When she sees the last one head in the right direction, she follows close behind, lungs screaming for breath as the very air tries to choke her.

Only a few of their allies don't make it, and Melina is relieved to see the Wardens, all three of them, have made it to safety. The gates of Fort Drakon are ominous in the shadows. The only way up is through. Memories tug at her mind but she pushes them back. There are worse horrors than being tortured and she can't afford to be distracted now.

The doors creak open, and Melina steels her spine. They head in all together, forming small sets of five to eight people as they head through the massive building. Last time she was here, she had ended up on a stretching wrack and had almost lost her hands. She takes a deep breath. They had saved her. It doesn't matter. It's over now. She repeats these things over and over in her head, a rhythmic chant that keeps her going even through the mass of darkspawn that litter the halls. 

It seems as if the battle never ends as the trudge ever upward. As grateful as she is that they're avoiding the dungeons, her fear mounts with each level they climb. The archdemon is a foul presence in her mind, sick with rot and taint. She shivers as they reach the final stairwell, bile rising in her throat. It's not until that moment that Melina realizes she never expected to make it past this battle alive. This must be her final test before the Maker. To die doing something worthy, to make up for her sins to get this far.

She glances at Jowan as Daveth passes out healing potions. She offers him a tiny smile, glad for a familiar face even if it was one she had loathed once. 

"Right. The archdemon is just up those stairs. Everyone ready?" Daveth asks, swallowing past the fear. "Whatever happens, leave the last blow to the archdemon to a Grey Warden. Understood? Focus on the darkspawn the beast calls to it. We'll take care of the rest."

A chorus of 'ayes' echo from down the hall and trickling through the rooms. Some of them can't have heard Daveth's warning, but already whispered warnings were floating down the line, repeating the Grey Warden's words for him. 

Daveth turns to Morrigan, grabbing her wrist and pulling her in for a heated kiss. He leans in, whispering something in her ear, and her cheeks turn a bright red. "As you will, Grey Warden," she replies tone surprisingly cool. 

Daveth turns away, two daggers clenched in his fist. He'd been using his bow most of the battle, and the switch to daggers takes her aback. She glances at Alistair, and sends her a mournful smile. She can't tell exactly what he's feeling, his shields are higher than usual. As the doors open, Alistair raises his sword to the ceiling, his eyes never leaving hers.

"For Ferelden. For the Grey Wardens," he shouts, still holding her gaze for the briefest of moments before charging into battle.

The weight of terror exuding from the archdemon settles on them all, the beast's magic reaching even the dwarves. Still, they fight, battling hurlocks and shrieks and genlocks as the night wanes on. Weariness claws at them all as the Legion of the Dead forms a protective ring around the mages. The mages, in turn, use offensive magics to bolster the dwarven allies. The sun crests over the horizon as the archdemon lets out a screech.

She watches as the wardens all exchange a glance before Daveth charges forward. She watches as the world seems to slow down around her, Daveth's feet thundering toward the badly wounded archdemon. His dagger slides along it's throat as it howls. A bright light explodes, stealing her vision. It knocks her over as she shields her face, the burst of power and magic and death almost too much for her to handle.

And then it stops, everything growing dim. Melina stumbles to her feet, staggering toward the archdemon corpse. She looks down at a charred body, griffon winged helmet caved in. The face is burnt beyond recognition but it's clear it is.

She falls, landing beside Daveth's body with tears falling down her cheeks. "Let Him take notice and shine upon thee, for thou has done His work on this day. And the stars stood still, the winds did quiet, and all animals of earth and air held their breath. And all was silent in prayer and thanks."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one more chapter after this one and then the Blight story is over! :D Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed so far and to anyone who who's reading along silently, thank you for sticking with the story. Feedback always welcomed.


	20. Epilogue

The salt wind is cool against Jalyn's skin, fluttering her now short hair. She runs her fingers through the strands, the red colour bright in the early morning sun. The bangs cover her tranquil brand, but sweat beads on her brow as she scans the crowd for templar or Grey Warden armour. She only breathes a sigh of relief when the ship's pulled far away, enough so that she could no longer see any faces. Just blurred shapes along a growingly distant shoreline.

A heavy cloak settles along her shoulders. She turns, offering Jowan a tiny smile. "We're leaving Ferelden," she whispers. She feels giddy, suddenly, the emotion bubbling up inside her. She pushes it down, gently, and grabs Jowan's hand. "Together."

Jowan nods, his smile still slow and hesitant, like he can't believe any of it's real. Neither could she. She never thought she'd make it out of Kinloch Hold; leaving the country was never even a thought in her mind, not really. Maybe once, before the magic and the circle. In Denerim, when she'd remember the tales her Dalish mother told her. Of the gods of her people, hidden away. Of the trickster and His games. She might have dreamed about faraway places, then, before everything changed.

"Your cousin should be done speaking with the captain soon," Jowan replies. "Do you think the ship will rock like this the whole way to Kirkwall?"

Jalyn grins. "Oh, I should think a whole lot worse, too," she says, tone teasing and playful. In the circle, trapped in that rocky prison, laughter seemed forbidden. Even with the tiniest of smiles, she felt the need to hide them in the shadows where only Jowan or Melina could see.

Now she's free. 

Jowan groans, face paling at her words. "I don't think I like the sea very much," he grumbles, clutching his stomach.

Maroth comes up behind him, patting him hard on the back. "'Ere, take this," he says, grinning. "Spindleweed helps that churnin' stomach of yers." He grins, taking a deep breath and sighing. "Ah, the fresh salty air. I'll take you lot as far as Kirkwall. Got me an old contact by the name of Athenril there. Until we reach the shores, I'll be below deck, in my quarters." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Jalyn groans loudly.

"I can only guess what the two of you will be up to, and I don't really want to know," she replies, referring to Zevran.

Maroth just chuckles as he walks away, leaving Jalyn alone with Jowan and her own thoughts. She frowns as she looks over the sea, Ferelden no longer visible along the horizon line. Her heart aches, fluttering against her ribs, as she thinks of the one she left behind.

_"Come with me," Jalyn begs, holding Melina's hands. "Please. We could do so much, together."_

_Melina bites her lip, golden eyes shimmering. "What do you mean?"_

_"Freedom," Jalyn replies, voice barely a whisper. "If we combine our powers, you and I, we could achieve freedom for every mage in Thedas."_

_She shakes her head, a single tear falling down her cheek. "I can't," Melina says. "I- I'm sorry. Alistair.... King Alistair has asked me to stay on as his mage advisor. I can't leave."_

_Jalyn clenches her jaw, heart beating like mad. "Can't, or won't?"_

_Melina smiles, a soft, slow curling of the lips. "I hope you'll be happy," she replies, not answering the question. "I won't tell anyone of your escape."_

_"Even though the templars will search for me?" Jalyn questions, fear prickling on the back of her neck._

_Melina presses a gentle kiss against her forehead. "Go on," she urges. "And please, be careful. Don't draw attention to yourself, and... and..." Her voice trails off, tears welling in her eyes. "And remember I love you."_

Jowan wraps his arms around her, his warm presence shaking Jalyn from her memories. "Just think, love. In a few weeks, we'll be somewhere we've never been before."

Jalyn nods, leaning into his embrace as she watches the waves crash against the bow of the ship. "Together, yeah?"

"Together."

 

~*~*~

 

 

The swaying of the ship is a gentle rhythm, slow and hypnotic. Maroth traces random patterns along Zevran's arm as they lay there together, listening to the sounds of the ocean.  "Hmmm, I think I could get used to this," he says, voice lazy with sleep.

Zevran sits up, leaning on one elbow and rummaging in his pack with his free hand. "Here. Seems an appropriate time to give you this," he says, handing Maroth a jeweled gold earring.

Maroth squints at at, the jewels catching the dim light of the candle. "An earring?"

"Mmm," Zevran replies. "I stole it from my last target, before the Wardens. It was all he was wearing when I killed him. I thought it was beautiful, and took it to mark the occasion."

"An' yer givin' it ta me? W'at, is this some sort of Antivan marriage proposal?" Maroth jokes, grinning as he looks at the earring. His heart flutters beneath his chest, hope rising that maybe Zevran felt more for him than the assassin had let on.

Zevran's face hardens slightly, and Maroth's heart drops. "Don't get the wrong idea about it. You killed Taliesin. As far as the Crows are concerned, I died with him. That means I am free. For now. Feel free to sell it or wear it or whatever you like. It's really the least I could give you in return."

Maroth pulls away, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Right. So, it means nothing, then? Figures." He sighs, running his hand through his long hair. "Maybe I don't want yer _gratitude_ ," he replies, not looking at Zevran.

"I- Uh- Look, just take it. It meant a lot to me but so have... So has what you've done," Zevran says, laying a hand on Maroth's shoulder. He presses a kiss against the back of his neck, his breath hot against Maroth's skin. "Please, take it."

Maroth pulls away, a harsh jerk of his body against Zevran's gentle touch. "I don't want it, unless it means somethin'," he throws back, his tone coming out harsher than he'd intended. 

Anger and pain tear through his body, coupled with the guilt of feeling so strongly for Zevran when his wife is dead, his child far from his reach. He shouldn't be allowed to love, he knows this. He doesn't deserve it, not when Nessy will never smile or laugh or make her famous stew again. But he can't help it. He just wants Zevran to love him, as much as he knows he shouldn't.

"Fine," Zevran replies, crawling off the bed. "You don't want earring, you don't get earring, very simple."

Maroth grabs Zevran's wrist as the assassin begins to pull on his trousers. "W'at, so, we're done then? Just like that?"

Zevran nods, not looking back as he gently pulls himself from Maroth's grasp. "Yes, just like that. When the ship docks at Kirkwall, I will stay aboard. I have... unfinished business with the Crows and you have business with your smuggler friends. It was... fun, while it lasted, no?" His voice is tight, guarded, and Maroth's heart skips a beat at the finality of it all.

He's grown used to waking up beside Zevran, curling up next to him at night, his witty banter.... But then, he's grown used to losing people, too. "Right. Fun."

"As an assassin, we learn to take our pleasures where we can," Zevran continues, pulling on a deep red silk shirt. "And what we had has certainly been a pleasure." 

Maroth clutches at his chest,  Zevran's words hitting him hard. His breath feels trapped in his throat as his pulse flutters wildly.  "Well, then we should take as much of this pleasure as we can, right?"

There's a pause before Zevran replies, the weighted silence heavy in the air. "No," he says, voice soft.

Maroth heart stops beating, tears pricking at his eyes. "W'at's this? The infamous Zevran sayin' no to sex?" he jokes, trying to keep the pain in his chest out of his voice.

Zevran bends over, pulling on his boots. "There is no need to make things more complicated than they already are, my friend."

"Friend?" Maroth asks. "Is that really all I am ta ya?"

The assassin tightens his leather belt, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "That is all I know," he replies, walking away.

 

The small cabin is empty, his own clothes still strewn on the floor in a crumpled heap. His hands shake as tears fall down his cheeks, cold and wet against his skin. It's over. He takes a deep breath, pushing the pain deep inside, and reaches for his shirt. Right. It's over. He can't waste time thinking about it. In a few weeks, they dock at Kirkwall.

Maroth looks down at the hastily scribbled note sticking out of his front shirt pocket. 

_Meet me at The Hanged Man, DW._

_\- A_

He pictures Athenril's face, the angular planes of her cheeks, dark brown eyes, and honey coloured hair. Ah, yes, that's what he needs. A good lay with an old friend to forget his heartache. A few drinks, some good company, and a pretty lass beneath him. Sex solves everything, right?

He looks down at the earring still clasped in his hand. The tiny jewels catch the light, twinkling up at him as another tear falls. Maroth clenches his fist, arm pulling back to fling the jewelry across the room. He lets out a roar as his arm falls back to his side, the earring still in his hand. He sits there, alone, for what seems like hours before finally taking a deep breath.

Maroth looks at himself in a mirror. He takes the earring and presses the sharp point against his ear. Blood trickles down his lobe as he pierces the ear. His cheeks are tear stained and dirty, his hair still a mess from sex. But the earring glitters deceptively, a would be promise that neither of them were able to put voice to. He sighs again, leaning back against his pillow. 

It's over. He should have known it would end, like this. He can still smell Zevran on his sheets, the spicy smell of his lover thick in his senses. It's over. He wipes the tears from his face. The Dark Wolf can't make his first appearance in Kirkwall crying, right?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the end. There were days when I thought I'd never make it here. Thank you, all of you, and especially those kind enough to leave me feedback and comments, for sticking with this story. There will be more with these characters, in this universe! I'm working on them now.
> 
> The Awakening tale, The Mabari and His Mage, will heavily feature Melina Amell, with a cameo from Maroth Tabris as The Dark Wolf. It will also introduce an elven Orlesian Grey Warden, named Sachi Andras. It will also feature Merrill AND Velanna as companion characters. You can read this one-shot for some lead-up to that pairing, if you need it: http://archiveofourown.org/works/7112710
> 
> The DAII story, Dancing With Shadows, will heavily feature Jalyn Surana and Jowan along with introducing Sia Hawke with cameos (possibly more) from Maroth Tabris and Melina Amell.
> 
> A DAII spin-off tale- Dirth Fen, featuring Fenris, will bring in Revas'mi Mahariel, Bellanaris Lavellan, and an elven OC as major characters. The stories told there will lead up to the DA:I story. Felassan from The Masked Empire and Tamlen from DA:O will also be involved. It's my most canon divergent piece: What if Hawke turned Fenris away after clearing out Danarius' mansion? It never clarifies what happens in that scenario, and since I love Fenris and refuse to imagine a world where Danarius recaptures him, this was born. Also very lore heavy.
> 
> The DA:I story, Holding Back the Sky, will heavily feature Maroth Tabris, Melina Amell, and Bellanaris Lavellan in unexpected roles along with the first arch heavily featuring Jalyn Surana and the second arch heavily featuring Revas'mi Mahariel. 
> 
> The Trespasser tale, The Call of the Wolf, will feature Maroth Tabris and Jalyn Surana with appearances from Melina Amell and Bellanaris Lavellan.
> 
> So, stay tuned! hehe I really hope people enjoy the follow up tales, numerous as they may be. Feedback always welcomed, and thank you in advance to those of you who read the whole series onward, you're a superstar and I appreciate your willingness to stick with such a long series.
> 
> Art featured at the end is by me, Lynn-Monster on DeviantArt or EilonwyCousland on tumblr.


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